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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/25192435">At the Edge of the World</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/anthony_crowley/pseuds/anthony_crowley'>anthony_crowley</a>, <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/Thyra279/pseuds/Thyra279'>Thyra279</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman &amp; Terry Pratchett</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Alexa play explicito, Alternate Universe - Historical, Alternate Universe - Human, Alternate Universe - Victorian, Angst, Archibald fucking Gabriel, Aziraphale Loves Crowley (Good Omens), Crowley Loves Aziraphale (Good Omens), Eventual Smut, Fluff, Found Family, Humor, Humour let's be passive-aggressive, Ineffable Husbands (Good Omens), Internalized Homophobia, Love and pining through the decades, M/M, Madame Tracy in a massive wig, Period-Typical Homophobia, Period-Typical Sexism, Pining, Posh boy Aziraphale, Regency Romance, Rent boy Crowley, Sailor boy Aziraphale, Slow Burn, So long it covers two historical periods yo, The Earl of Shadwell, They end up together being cute and fluffy and happy I promise, This takes place over decades they have a lot of time to get inventive, We're going all out on tropes here</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>In-Progress</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-07-10</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-09-07</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-05 08:49:05</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Explicit</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>4</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>21,295</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/25192435</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/anthony_crowley/pseuds/anthony_crowley, https://archiveofourown.org/users/Thyra279/pseuds/Thyra279</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>London, 1814.</p><p>The handsome young Mr. Aziraphale Fortescue has a family name and an easy upper-class charm that makes the world smile at him - at least at who they think he is. A Royal Navy lieutenant, he is ordered to take shore-leave by his commanding officer, Archibald Gabriel. While on leave, he discovers London's underworld and finds the love of his life: The man who will expand his horizons and make him reach for more than he ever dared to hope for.</p><p>Anthony J. Crawly, known as Raphael to his clients, wants his own place in the world and he'll do anything to get there. He's on the prowl for a rich gentleman patron, a much more dangerous game than the one played by the famous mistresses of the time.  He has no need for a posh angelic lieutenant and yet, he cannot keep away. </p><p>The two turn each others' lives upside-down, for better and for worse. At a time of great revolutions and upheaval, they take a stand themselves, together and apart, forging out a place for the two of them despite the world they live in - eventually.</p><p>Will be blessed with beautiful art by anthony_crowley aka agardeneden and was created as part of the DIWS Minibang.</p><p>Update Dec 2020: On hold at the moment but not forgotten!</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>131</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>151</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Collections:</b></td><td>Good Omens Human AUs, Good Omens Mini Bang</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>1. High and Low</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Our tale begins in earnest on the 10th May 1814, but if we are to start at the very beginning as conventional wisdom encourages, we must first make a swift hop back to the tail end of the previous century. The eighteenth century came to a resistant end, kicking and screaming and dragging the world through a broad fan of revolutions which would change the world entirely. The nineteenth century woke up wincing from some of the ideas which had seemed intoxicating the century before, such as slavery and powdered wigs, and quite blind to many of the other faults of its predecessor.</p><p>In the midst of all the bloody, magnificent histories that were written then, it would be easy as anything to overlook the lives of two quite ordinary boys born in the year of our- their- a Lord 1790. And yet, they might just be worth your time. They have a story of their own, one which will be spent in the shadows of those great and glorified histories, lived through choice and through necessity in the cracks of the endlessly changing worlds into which they were thrust through no fault of their own.</p><p>Their story will not be shouted from the top of angry barricades; it will not be memorised in rousing songs or glorified in speeches. Instead, they will find themselves content to write it where it is not quite written, to whisper it to one another in the privacy of shared breaths, to see it painted in the intimate hint of a well-known smile caught across a room. They will not get speeches and they will not get songs for the stand they will take, and yet their stand will take just as much courage as any revolution of the French, Haitian or American kind.</p><p>Rest assured that their story will end more unequivocally happily than any of those.</p><p>Before we meet the pair, dear reader, you must forgive another transgression to yet another revolution, this one of a more industrial kind:</p><p>Our story starts in England, which seems as good a place as any, really. One might be tempted to reference those green and pleasant lands on which Britannia had long prided herself, but we begin instead in London, which was turning less green and less pleasant by the day.</p><p>The ancient city was by 1814 a dirty, sprawling beast. It was very nearly the largest city in the world already, capital of the world, and it snarled impatiently, swelling every day with people looking for adventure or desperate for survival. It thrived on people's dreams and fears; it fed on their innermost desires. It found them by the looms and weaves in the newly invented factories which sprung up on the outskirts of the city. It found them in the private silky beds of the well-to-do in the sprawling new townhouses taking over the fields of Bloomsbury and Mayfair.</p><p>The London of the new century offered little rest for the wicked and even less respite for the good. It was a place of opportunity if one dared to leap and risk it all. It was a place where even the well-to-do might fall, hard and irredeemably, if one put so much as a single well-dressed foot wrong.</p><p>Enter the first of our leading men.</p><p>
  <em> London Docks, Wapping, East London, 10th May 1814 </em>
</p><p>Aziraphale Fortescue was as stately a gentleman as he could be at the age of 24. Broad-chested and comely, he was undoubtedly a man, yet he'd retained something of the angelic innocence of youth about the face and hands which made him much more approachable to men, women and children alike than a man of his rank usually would be. As a consequence, he went through life with a general affection for his fellow man which was sometimes undeserved, and a charitable disposition to believe the best of the world made all the easier by the good fortune of his birth.</p><p>By any reasonable account, the world was his to take. His oyster, so to say.</p><p>Mr. Fortescue had had a great many friends and a surplus of loved ones in the generic sense of the word: He loved them all and they loved the Aziraphale that they knew. His most invaluable companion, however, had always been his mind; the acute intelligence which lay behind his geniality.</p><p>It served him sometimes in the manner of a ruthlessly forthright but ultimately well-meaning sister, when he could not quite suppress those malicious thoughts which he did not want but which sometimes broke through his defenses anyway.</p><p>More often, whenever Mr. Fortescue was fully in control of it, his mind served as his finest superficial bosom friend with whom he could share the delights of the world and – always in private and usually good-humouredly – a laugh at those few people he encountered who proved so intensely unlikeable that even Aziraphale could not offer them anything more charitable.</p><p>People such as Archibald Gabriel, his commanding officer. But enough about him for now – it would not do anyone any good to think of him when one didn't strictly need to. And Mr. Fortescue was very good at not thinking too much about those things which one must not think about, on the whole. Besides, the young man had a great many other concerns to worry about already on this particular dreary, rainy afternoon walk through his new home city.</p><p>"Penny for your thoughts, sir?" Aziraphale glanced up, torn from his own wretched ponderings for a moment. There was a woman there, hiding from the rain under the beginnings of a roof. She leered at him with darkened eyes, pale beneath her bright red lips, leaning against the red brick wall of a half-constructed dock office. A shapely leg cocked out from beneath her skirt, obvious in its intention and resplendent in its sin.</p><p>"No!" Aziraphale took a half-step onwards before a surge of guilt put him right. He looked around the wet, half-finished docks, but the few workers hammering away at the new basins despite the weather paid them no mind. This was, after all, an everyday exchange, repeated in its thousands across the city every hour.</p><p>On the other side of the Thames, the first tell-tale flash and rumble broke across the sky.</p><p>"No, thank you, dear," he sighed, fetching a generous bundle of coins from a pocket. It was raining after all, and though the woman had made a competent attempt at concealing it, the high waist of her dress betrayed the tell-tale swell of shame beneath. She held out her hand, felt the weight of the coins. Her hard blue eyes pinned him to the spot, almost made him squirm. Aziraphale thought he saw reproach in them.</p><p>"I don't- I'm sorry-… I wish, uhm, I wish the very best for the both of you," he managed in a low, gentle voice he usually only used for his sisters. He smiled at her, a little unsteadily.</p><p>The woman huffed and waddled off fast as her legs could take her, as though he might change his mind. Aziraphale bowed his head at her even as she disappeared down another new, muddy river-side street in this ever-expanding city. It took another rumble from above to remind him of the dreadful weather he found himself in and have him hurry off himself, heading west towards his home and then to Covent Garden, securing his black cocked hat against his curly mess of hair in an attempt at some little reprieve from the heavens.</p><p>Another flash of light distracted him for a moment from the rain pouring down his neck, tepid and invasive. It proved just the distraction he needed, the mercy which pulled him away from considering his own wretched failings. He listened to the following rumble gratefully, thoughts falling on to much more comfortable topics and the usual bounce coming back to his step as he crossed into the boundaries of the City.</p><p>Three months in London. Aziraphale could count on one hand the days which had been nice so far. For the hundredth time since his move to the capital, he considered the possible acquisition of an umbrella. From what he'd observed, it really did seem as if the possession of such a device might be perfectly acceptable for the London gentleman. At home, only his sisters were allowed such a thing. Back on the Gloriana, they'd have laughed themselves silly at the idea; it wasn't as if a bit of rain or seawater ought to matter all that much. But all this rain <em> did </em> wear him down, and even his uniform, durable as it was, <em> did </em> get rather wet. His civilian clothing, waiting dry and warm at home for the afternoon's outing, would certainly fare no better. And he was by all accounts to be a London resident now – for a long time, it would seem, so perhaps he could… perhaps.</p><p>Aziraphale was also still, despite his best attempts, fully in the excitable state of the London newcomer: He had not so far managed to pass by one of the city's iconic sights without stopping for a moment to marvel at it. He felt the ghost of his childhood summers' awe whenever he passed one – the magnetic escape of a trip to the Theatre Royal; the first time he passed the Westminster Bridge from the water; the whisper of ages gone by at the Tower. Quite oblivious to the huffs and snarls of the real Londoners who had to step around him, he passed that ancient fortress now and could not help a quick stop even in this weather to marvel at it. Thoughts much lighter now, he decided in a fit of romanticism to follow along the trail of the old city wall back to his flat in Soho.</p><p>He passed by the magnificent St Paul's Cathedral, grey and impressive against the dramatic sky. He recognized the Old Bailey as he hurried past and up the slow rise of Ludgate Hill. A horse with a cart whinnied impatiently when he stepped out in front of it to get across one of the smaller intersecting roads.</p><p>He paid it no mind, of course, holding out a lackadaisical hand and paying more attention to hopping across the giant puddle by the pavement. It would be terrible to place a foot wrong and turn up at the afternoon's events in ruined boots. He must make a respectable impression and, most of all, he must not stand out too much. Drenched footwear would not do and so, the horse must simply wait. In any case, he'd never been particularly fond of horses.</p><p>Had Mr. Fortescue glanced up across his shoulder just then, as he stepped out on to Limeburner Lane, serendipity herself might have granted him a flash of red hair in the windowsill of the top floor of the handsome townhouse on the corner. He should have glimpsed his own future, then; should have looked unwittingly upon the man who would change the course of his life for better and for worse. But these things rarely work out in real life as in poetry, and so Aziraphale Fortescue hurried on up the street towards a less grand, more honest house than the one in which the love of his life was currently lounging about.</p><p>
  <em> Limeburner Lane, City of London </em>
</p><p>That young man, who currently thought of himself primarily as Anthony J. Crawly, sat in the deep windowsill of his drawing room, observing every flash of light in undiluted awe.</p><p>Until that is, a soulless series of knocks rapped against his door.</p><p>"Yes?" His voice rang out, in the studied and disinterested way that he had carefully cultivated.</p><p>A greyish man who looked hunched over but wasn't opened the door. The mop of hair on top of his head looked like the week-old straw one might find under a particularly incontinent horse, horrible creatures that they were. Crawly knew from experience that the man smelled even worse.</p><p>"What do <em> you </em> want?"</p><p>Anthony Crawly had woken at a little past noon that same day, a feat which wasn't very unusual for him at all. He'd come about to find himself sprawled across his scandalously luxurious bed and had allowed himself another half hour of languid pleasure, melting into the soft, fresh sheets, before he faced the day.</p><p>He'd launched himself off the bed eventually to undertake his morning toilette and, having performed all the usual grooming rituals, dressed himself in his thinnest, loosest loungewear banyan and very little else before sitting himself down in the window and indulging in his long-perfected snarl to await the man who now besmirched his door. The stinking prick who was looking anywhere but at him.</p><p>"Hastur! Hi." Crawly drawled in the way he knew would make the sullen-looking man in front of him burn with revulsion. "Be a pet and ask Eric to bring up some extra sheets, would you?"</p><p>He watched Hastur cringe with immense satisfaction, though the ash blond devil managed to growl out an affirmative before he turned to leave.</p><p>"Oh, and don't you dare skimp, make sure they're the cotton kind. You know how Haylayle likes it."</p><p>Hastur closed the door, spitting his usual chorus of slander at him as he went. Nothing Crawly hadn't heard before. He knew Hastur wouldn't dare go against the wishes of their – no, of <em> Hastur's </em> boss. Crawly's landlord. He'd do well to remember that.</p><p>He leant his bony shoulders back against the chilly window to await the usual arrival of the much-less-intolerable Eric, letting his sensitive eyes take advantage of the dark, heavy clouds outside to stare down at the street below.</p><p>Everything down there was grey – it always was, but the grey seemed to pervade every surface, every single thing down there today, rain washing out the usual bleary details of Ludgate Hill. He found he missed the people, the hustle and bustle of everyday life, now that they were gone. Not anywhere near enough to chance the rain and pop outside himself, though. Besides, he only had an hour to prepare. He'd need to get some coffee from downstairs and made a mental note to ask Eric to fetch him some.</p><p>He turned away from the spectacle outside the window for now to admire instead his more immediate surroundings.</p><p>Crawly was proud of his apartment: It was, so far, his greatest achievement. It was elegant, lavish when you looked at it closely, if a little wanting in paraphernalia by current conventions. He quite liked the space the lack of things allowed for, thought it understated rather than deficient. The furniture he did own did their job well. They were a little more opulent than he should have chosen himself, but that was a necessary side-effect of his situation, and he would accept it happily for the prestige of an address in the City – and for the security the place afforded him.</p><p>Speaking of which, he really ought to start preparing. First, though, another quick ten minutes to take in the natural spectacle outside.</p><p>A horse whinnied on the street below when Crawly cracked open a window to enjoy the peculiarly fresh smell of the terrible weather. Thunderbolts and lightning had imbued the sky with a peculiarly orange tinge, the outline of the city very nearly disappeared beneath the streaming skies. Ten minutes turned into twenty.</p><p>There was a touch of the theatrical to the world today, he thought, a dramatic performance by the weather that Crawly could get behind entirely. He looked out at the great big world outside, inspired, and thought he might compose a little scene for Mr. Haylayle, keep on the robe and strike a loose pose right here in the window. The dramatic backdrop should do very nicely indeed. He would like it, if Crawly knew him at all – which he wasn't very sure he did. Still, one way to find out.</p><p>Only the very best for Lucian Haylayle, of course. Crawly owed him, and besides, Mr. Haylayle was by far his most thrilling client.</p><p> </p>
<p></p><div class="center">
  <p>
    <br/>
</p>
</div>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0002"><h2>2. In the Beginning</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>Mr. Fortescue finds an opening to something he dare not speak by name. Mr. Crawly falls even further into dangerous territory.</p>
          </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <em>Limeburner Lane, City of London, 10<sup>th</sup> May 1814</em>
</p>
<p>There was another knock on the door, this one a little gentler.</p>
<p>"Come in," Anthony J. Crawly drawled.</p>
<p>"Good mornin', Raphael." Eric gave in to the same little half-bow he capitulated to every morning. Crawly stretched his arms in the windowsill for effect.</p>
<p>"Mornings are never good, Eric."</p>
<p>"'Course not, sir-…" Nearly every day, Crawly watched the house lackey get caught up in the same confusions. Had he been a better person, he would have put Eric at ease by now, let him know that he ought to be spoken to with the respect deserving of a gentleman or sought out friendlier terms with the house's least intolerable member. Unfortunately, Eric's confusion served as an abstract sort of amusement for him, and so today, as on any other day, Crawly kept stum on the matter and restricted himself to getting up slowly from the windowsill and an only somewhat sarcastic grin.</p>
<p>"Luckily, Eric, it isn't morning anymore. I'm sure we shall find the day as pleasurable as any. Did you bring my things?"</p>
<p>Eric, a good-looking boy around Crawly's age, nodded at the basket in his hands and walked towards Crawly's bedroom, stopping short of the double doors to wait for Crawly to open them. He ambled over, threw them open, and they made it to each side of the enormous fourposter bed, tugging off the covers with the practised ease of having done so countless times before.</p>
<p>"Mr. Haylayle, then." Eric barely glanced at him, fluffing up a now silken pillow before patting it gently into shape. The covers were always plain white or cream. His own. He'd flat-out refused to use the gaudy fruit-and-wine motives that downstairs used. Linen did the job for the most part; it was rare that any of them stayed long enough to pay any attention to the sheets or any other detail of the surroundings at all. Mr. Haylayle, on the other hand, paid attention to everything, so silk it was.</p>
<p>"Yup." Crawly extended the word, let it fester in his mouth for as long as possible. Another easy amusement.</p>
<p>"When?"</p>
<p>"Some time after two, I expect, it has been the other times. Whenever he's done with you lot. Never quite know when he'll get here, do you?" Crawly stopped in the middle of tugging of the sheet to watch Eric shrug noncommittally. "He's not in the house yet, then?"</p>
<p>Eric hesitated for a second before answering. Information had value, after all. Here more than anywhere.</p>
<p>Finally, he shook his head. "Nah, he's not. Everyone's a bit on edge downstairs, actually, waiting for him."</p>
<p>They each grabbed hold of their side of the cover and gave it a few shakes between them, leaving it as fluffy and airy as a cloud. "He'll be doing inspections first, taking stock of inventory and stuff downstairs, then checking out the Den. At least he usually does." Crawly watched as he picked up the barely used bedsheets piece by piece and deposited them in the basket.</p>
<p>"You know…" Eric deliberated a moment longer. He looked at Crawly, head tilted slightly, eyebrows furrowed. "I could let you know when he gets here, if I can sneak away. Give you a bit of a warning."</p>
<p>Crawly shook his head, little hairs at the back of his neck bristling at the concern, which he didn't want or need. Besides, Mr. Haylayle had eyes and ears everywhere. Eric's eyes and ears belonged to him too, probably. Accepting his help was far too much to gamble for a bit of an olive branch.</p>
<p>"Nah, it's fine, I know how to handle him. It. I'll be ready." He picked up his book from his bedside table, ran a finger down the back of it. "Might do a bit of studying while I wait. I've been reading a lot of books lately." He barely noticed when the slightly posher notes, the sharper elocution creeped into his voice anymore.</p>
<p>"Oh, right. Nice." The lackey collected a cup and a plate, looked around the room for other dirty leftovers without the slightest flinch.</p>
<p>Crawly leant against a bedpost, crossed his arms. "It is, rather. I'm giving the ancients a go. I- I mean, I've done some Greek before, of course, along with French, but that was more focused on the language than the culture. Thought I might make some headwind on the Odyssey."</p>
<p>Eric walked towards the door, Crawly following. "Never 'eard of them."</p>
<p>"Homer, you know."</p>
<p>The lackey picked the basket back up. "Sure, Raph. Look, I've gotta get back downstairs. I'll bring you some coffee, alright."</p>
<p>Crawly went to open the door out of his apartment for him. "Right," he sniffed. "Yes, of course."</p>
<p>"Sure you don't want more of a meal?"</p>
<p>Crawly shook his head. "That can wait until after. I'll go for a stroll and a bite when the cleaning girls come in."</p>
<p>Eric shot him a glance. "You sure?"</p>
<p>"I can wait."</p>
<p>"Suit yourself. I'll let you get back to all your important studies, then." Crawly thought he might've heard a whiff of mockery in Eric's tones before he closed the door and started getting ready, interrupted only by a lukewarm cup of coffee from an out-of-breath Eric who took his leave the second he set down the cup. Preparations were clearly underway in the entire house.</p>
<p>The cup, Crawly and Homer sat themselves down by a different windowsill in the bedroom for a little while, and Crawly tried to read. If it happened to be one from where he could view the back street that contained his own separate entrance to the house as well as the front of the house, well, Crawly thought it best to be prepared.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <em>Covent Garden, the West End</em>
</p>
<p>Two familiar scents rushed out to meet Aziraphale Fortescue the second he pushed open the heavy wooden door. The sharp smell of coffee followed by slower, sweeter tobacco notes were quickly becoming his closest friends in this city. They were far from the worst smells one might encounter in London. He'd already grown used to most of the scents of the city; he knew how to handle those sorts of things, though at least at sea one might go above decks to get rid of the stench of far too many people living practically on top of each other. Catch one's breath and lose oneself in the bracing wind on one's face. No chance of that escape in the great capital. Not yet, at least.</p>
<p>At least the rain had washed away the worst excesses of the city; the short walk from his Soho home had been almost pleasant. He felt almost clean, for once.</p>
<p>Aziraphale steadied himself, waited for his eyes to adjust to the smoky darkness of the coffeehouse and let the wave of chatter that always existed in these places wash over him. He fit in well in such environments, moved at ease between the high and low discussions that ebbed and flowed throughout the night. The place was crowded; it reminded him a little of the few months he'd managed at Oxford. He picked out the quivering hum of polite and eager intellectual conversations as well as the sloshing arguments of conversation aided by something a fair bit stronger than coffee. The place was packed, clearly one of the more popular hangouts around here. He must have walked past it dozens of times by now; funny that he hadn't ever really noticed it from the outside.</p>
<p>He found the barkeep easily enough, bent over and grumbling behind the counter.</p>
<p>"Hello," Aziraphale began in his most friendly, best-worn tone.</p>
<p>"Just a moment, lad." A heavy thud and a bit of strain in the good man's voice suggested he was moving something heavy about. Something about his accent reminded Aziraphale of home. Mr. Fortescue smiled, a picture of practiced ease, and held the smile dutifully on his lips while the barkeep took his time. Eventually, the man surfaced, much leaner and older than one would have expected from his swearing. The good man took a proper look at his patron and immediately straightened up.</p>
<p>Aziraphale, having changed at home and now in civilian wear, may be young, yes, but he cut a strong profile. 'Strong and steadfast' had been drilled into him from a young age, and luckily, it was a way of being which suited him immensely. He liked to think his sturdy, steady exterior reflected his inner self. A lot of the time it did, though his hands gave him away a little today, fluttering about the till as he waited with something a little different from their usual excitement.</p>
<p>Civilian fashion had become clear-cut and snug in recent years, emphasising masculine strength much more than it used to. Mr. Fortescue found it comforting, the layers and formality very much like a uniform. He hoped they would stick around, and his family's tailor had assured him that they would. The hair, too, was Aziraphale's friend, his ludicrously blond curls tufting the top of his head with very little unnatural persuasion needed. High top, shorter sides. Aziraphale matched his comfortably fashionable choices with an unfashionably big smile, which he'd learnt long ago served just as well in disarming potential adversaries as did the most threatening scowl.</p>
<p>"Beg your pardon, sir. Have a coffee on the house, if you please."</p>
<p>"Oh, there'll be no need for that." He let a few heavy coins clink onto the counter, more than enough for the coffee and was awarded with a slice of pie for his efforts. "Thank you. Now, I've been promised that a most stimulating discussion on Grecian Antiquities is to take place here tonight. Would you happen to be able to direct me towards the table?"</p>
<p>The barkeep's smile seemed to stiffen a little. "Ah. Certainly, sir. This way, if you please."</p>
<p>Aziraphale kept smiling, folded his hands politely behind him while the barkeep picked up his coffee and pie. They moved upstairs through the ancient inn, dark wooden stairs creaking below them, the sweet tobacco clouds growing thicker as they ascended.</p>
<p>There they were, the men who fancied themselves intellectuals, part of the vast amount of Londoners who'd met in coffee houses to discuss the world for generations by now. They were already chatting excitedly when Mr. Fortescue joined them; he recognized a few faces from other coffeehouses and other discussions from the past three months.</p>
<p>A lot of artists today, mostly aspiring, of course, and everyone around the table fancied themselves men of culture. Aziraphale nodded to those he knew, smiled a little more stiffly now that he was, perhaps, closer to the action, and sat himself down, noticing with a moment's relief that most of the drinks already scattered around the table contained slightly more than caffeine.</p>
<p>The discussion proved better than he would have thought. He'd arrived in the middle of an ardent if not quite revolutionary debate on the merits of the ancient blood sports of the Great Roman Empire, which had half the group enraptured and the other half nodding politely along, waiting for the gentler arts of the Greeks to take over. Aziraphale quickly determined that none of those describing the feeding of the martyrs to the wild animals in gleeful detail and with great passion had ever witnessed death nor fighting in real life and resigned himself to suffering through the evening in pursuit of his goal. He smiled, nodded and offered mild remarks when necessary hiding his more and more trembling hands underneath the table or in plain sight, firmly wrapped around his coffee cup.</p>
<p>The artist Arthur Peeveridge, who was rather unique amongst his peers in finding some degree of success, had recently completed a tour of Greece and Italy, which was not itself a special feat in this day and age, and had returned with some genuinely interesting insights to share, which was. He proved to be Aziraphale's salvation for the evening, both curing his boredom and very nearly managing to make Mr. Fortescue forget the real reason for his being there.</p>
<p>Mr. Peeveridge proved even more interesting than Aziraphale had been expecting when he first heard rumours of the man a few weeks earlier.</p>
<p>The artist, fairly young and still kissed golden from his trip, wasn't anywhere near as haughty as that sort tended to be. He had soft lips and shiny brown hair, spoke with a gentle northern trill which turned just a little effeminate when he forgot himself.</p>
<p>Aziraphale found himself quite caught up in it and nearly missed what would transpire to be the <em>in</em> he'd been searching for for months.</p>
<p>Afternoon had merged into evening by then. Most of the discussion group had dispersed and apart from Peeveridge and Aziraphale himself, only three others were left, sharing a particular fascination for the racier side of Greek sculptural aesthetics in hushed tones as well as a taste for good port, it would seem.</p>
<p>They'd dissected the terribly lewd graffities of Pompeii in great detail, glancing about to ensure that none of the more virtuous patrons of the inn were listening in. They'd hushed their way through discussion of the entirely nude and thankfully long-destroyed original Aphrodite of Knidos. They were tip-toeing around the treacherously dangerous precipice of the Ancient Olympics and the seldom-acknowledged fact that plates had been discovered picturing men wrestling with one-another wearing nothing at all when the artist leant in conspiratorially, pipe in hand, his voice a near-whisper.</p>
<p>"Of course, some of the specimens one encounters from the Hellenistic period are simply <em>scandalous</em>. Absolutely atrocious, and yet…" Aziraphale's heart fell through his stomach, almost painfully, when he thought he picked up an insinuation. The others looked at Peeveridge, who remained resolutely still.</p>
<p>The rest of the group reeked with anticipation. Aziraphale blinked, glanced at the faces of his companions. Leant in just a split-second after the others, half certain that they would turn on him imminently, see him, the distress that he was in, the mad, desperate, hopeless anticipation, his utter shame. He felt himself flush, body about to give him away, betraying his mind before it could make itself up.</p>
<p>This was the moment – the voicing of a terrible fear, a terrifying desire, however mildly it he was to prod – the moment which would set in action the course that would change Aziraphale's entire fate.</p>
<p>He couldn't. Aziraphale couldn't speak. He <em>had </em>to. And he couldn't.</p>
<p>He licked his lips, ready to ask, to urge on the artist in his incriminating insinuations.</p>
<p>He couldn't.</p>
<p>He didn't.</p>
<p>Luckily for Mr. Fortescue – or unluckily, as some may think – one of the other men <em>did </em>ask, chest almost flat on the table as he leant over towards the artist, a frown on his face.</p>
<p>"Whatever do ya mean?"</p>
<p>"Well, you see, I spent a simply glorious fortnight in Corinth, sketching out the temple ruins. I'm very glad I made it there on my tour. Beautiful surroundings, the earthy colours mixing with the azure-blue sky. It was simply marvellous." A small, studied smile escaped the artist's serious expression. He was teasing them, and he knew. They all knew, waiting for the truly shocking, the types of information one did not discuss in whispers, let alone in polite society. Four sets of eyes clinging on to the narrator's every syllable.</p>
<p>"One day, this archaeologist I, erh, had <em>befriended</em>," the emphasis was there to catch if you were looking; slight enough to miss if you weren't. At least Aziraphale was almost certain it was. He bit his lip, more intent on the artist's words than anywhere else around the table. "He showed me this old plate, nearly intact, that he'd excavated the year before…"</p>
<p>Peeveridge leant back for a moment, sucked on his pipe and blew out smoke for effect, taking a moment to bask in their rapture before leaning back in.</p>
<p>"Now, gentlemen, as we've already touched upon tonight, when dealing with the Ancients, one comes across the most <em>shocking</em> scenes of gluttony and lust, all the sins, really, including, ah, acts of the flesh from a much baser time. Men and women depicted in the most <em>appalling</em> positions. But this… this was truly depraved." He paused, toying with them, until one of the others, a young man with a ruddy complexion, couldn't help asking, his voice little more than a breath.</p>
<p>"<em>What</em>?"</p>
<p>"Two men, in the nude. Embracing–" the artist whispered, nodding in outraged agreement when he got the gasps he'd worked for. He leant in even further, rushed out for emphasis "–<em>flush up against one-another</em>."</p>
<p>A moment of silence, murmurs of disgust from around the table. The artist glanced around at them, smirking, reaping the rewards of their outraged awe. Aziraphale thought Peeveridge might have held his gaze a little too long and took a sip of his now thoroughly cold and uninviting coffee, looked resolutely at the ruddy lad now taking over the conversation instead. He had half a mind to get up and leave, though he remained there, one foot tapping nervously against the wooden floor under their table. He had no other choice, really.</p>
<p>The conversation quickly returned to less turbulent waters, steered safely by that young man and a scholarly type back to the somewhat less appalling subject of depictions of Pan and the nymphs, also in the nude but offering themselves up clad in the much safer gender.</p>
<p>It was still a subject which was thoroughly taboo in most polite conversation, of course, though it didn't come with quite the lethal edge that the Corinthian discovery did. The reason why these conversations only came up late into the evening and always petered out in public places such as these, to be continued in the privacy of swanky salons and good postcodes for those few who had an in and the predilection to pursue them. Aziraphale didn't hear five words of the subsequent discussion before it petered out, ears ringing as he used every technique he had ever learnt for battle to quiet his breathing and get his mind clear and in control once more.</p>
<p>The ruddy one and a quiet, sullen-looking older man left just half an hour later, their curiosity and outrage gratified for now, leaving just three of them. The conversation faltered, gradually coming to a pause. Eventually the third man, an older, scholarly-looking gent with a sizeable moustache began quietly, carefully.</p>
<p>"If one were to seek out further intellectual discussion of… outrageous discoveries such as these Pan statues and Aphrodites… where would one go, I wonder?"</p>
<p>Peeveridge smirked. "Oh, I wouldn't know, to be sure." The older man sat back, his moustache dipping slightly. "Although I've heard rumours that Marjorie Potts – you know the old actress; mistress to the Earl of Shadwell – hosts a rather radical-thinking salon every Thursday."</p>
<p>"Ah." The scholar tipped his glass in appreciation. As everyone knew all too well, however, knowing about these events was only half the struggle. It was a truth universally acknowledged in their day and age, in fact, that one needed an invitation or a means of introduction to get into these things.</p>
<p>"I might be going next Thursday, see for myself if there is any truth to the rumour, if you gents would be interested in accompanying me." The artist weighed them up. "I happen to know Mistress Potts, and can put in a good word for you, ask her to extend an invitation."</p>
<p>"You do?" Aziraphale's voice came out all hoarse, but stable and unwavering, thank the Lord. It was the first he'd contributed to the conversation for half an hour.</p>
<p>"Rather well, in fact. She's my aunt."</p>
<p>The older man let out a relieved chuckle. "Well, I'd be much obliged." He reached out to shake the artist's hand. Aziraphale confirmed his interest too with a bow of his head, and a band of brothers had been formed. "I'm Charles Chester-Monroe." He nodded towards Aziraphale, expectantly.</p>
<p>"Aziraphale," he smiled, measured but warmly. "Aziraphale Fortescue."</p>
<p>There they were, the familiar raised eyebrows that often accompanied his family name. Much safer territory for Aziraphale, uncomfortable as it was.</p>
<p>"One of <em>the </em>Fortescues?" The scholar asked, boldly.</p>
<p>"Yes. Though a lesser one, I assure you."</p>
<p>"Well, pleased to make your acquaintance, sir." Charles Chester-Monroe shook his hand, explained a little about his background and current research with a great deal of fanfare, and agreed a time and place to meet on Thursday with the other two.</p>
<p>Then he left.</p>
<p>Peeveridge sipped his drink in the lull that followed, took in Aziraphale from the corner of his eye.</p>
<p>"Anything on your mind, sir?"</p>
<p>There they were. Aziraphale didn't say anything for a full minute. Peeveridge didn't look at him.</p>
<p>"I was wondering…"</p>
<p>"Yes?"</p>
<p>A steadying breath. He knew what he was doing; he was far less the stuttering mess he'd been the first few times. Yet it always felt like a precipice, this moment when weeks of hard work and careful little nudges would either turn into a certainty or founder there between them. And he'd never got this close before. He'd seen it on the face of others before, long ago, he'd glimpsed it on the careful face of the painter as their eyes had met earlier.</p>
<p>The knowledge, ever-present and never-spoken, that a false reading, a misread tone, a too desperate pull of their deadly affliction might lead to the greatest, unrecoverable fall.</p>
<p>And yet, on they went.</p>
<p>He kept his voice light and airy, low enough for no one else to hear. "I was wondering whether Mistress Potts' salon might also…" he locked his gaze firmly on the cup between his hands, "…facilitate further knowledge of such indelicate topics as those you uncovered at Corinth."</p>
<p>Aziraphale felt the artist study him, deciding whether to trust him. He matched Aziraphale's low tone when he answered. "Of course not. Her salon is a respectable establishment. For the most part."</p>
<p>Aziraphale nodded his head. Glanced up at him. The artist was looking at his fingernails. "However, there is talk of another establishment. One which meddles with the, ah, darker arts. My aunt has an acquaintance, I believe, knows a place called Beelzebub's," Aziraphale couldn't help but cringe. Peeveridge patted his hand two quick times before moving it away again. It was a simple touch and endlessly reassuring. Aziraphale melted with relief as the artist lowered his voice. "I'm sure you've heard of the, ah, additional work that Mistress Potts is said to partake in."</p>
<p>Aziraphale dipped his head in the faintest acknowledgement. "Well. Beelzebub’s is a similar sort of establishment not entirely different to my dear aunt’s… side business, shall we say, only it is said they work much more closely with the, ah, dark arts." To his great consternation, Aziraphale felt himself blush. It seemed, however, to relax the other man, who turned much more casual than he'd been all evening, gracious enough to send Aziraphale a little smile – having made certain that no one was watching them.</p>
<p>"Dunno anything more than that, dove. I'm sure I don't partake myself." He waited until Aziraphale nodded. "Just rumours, is all. Don't know anything about that place, for real. It's said to be dangerous, though." He waited for Aziraphale to nod again, then shot another glance up and down Mr. Fortescue, took in his still-blushing cheeks and smiled, much more warmly than he had at any other point during the night. "Mind, I can't promise you'll find anyone as pretty as yourself there, doll, though I'm sure they'll be happy to provide for a proper gentleman such as yourself." Aziraphale smiled, stiffly. "You sure you're not looking for a much easier deal?" He touched Aziraphale's hand again with his little finger, just barely. </p>
<p>Aziraphale kept his hand where it was, afraid to cause offense if he moved it. Instead, he repeated his unusually stiff smile, adding a gentle shake of his head. "No thank you."</p>
<p>"Alright then, dove. But yes, come along to the salon and ask my dear aunt herself. She won't rat you out, I can promise you that. Give me your address, I'll let you know."</p>
<p>
  <em>Beelzebub's, Limeburner Lane, City of London</em>
</p>
<p>Mr. Lucian Haylayle was unlike any other man Crawly had ever known. He moved with slow and quiet determination in whatever he did; the certainty with which he performed any action made it clear that he always got his way. He smiled, often, and it set Crawly's nerves on fire, chilled him to the bone. He was tall and fair and elegant, impeccably polite, and had the most terrifying eyes Crawly would ever know.</p>
<p>They were pale blue, very nearly white and always cold, even when they burnt with fury.</p>
<p>Crawly had only seen it happen once, two months earlier when Mr. Haylayle had come by the house for a surprise visit.</p>
<p>
  <em>Limeburner Lane, February</em>
</p>
<p>Crawly had woken up ravenously hungry and, after tossing and turning for a good hour and getting dressed, had made a rare trip three flights of the main stairs to Beelzebub's downstairs to gobble up a quick and reluctant meal amidst the relentless cackling and clucking of the early-morning working boys. He'd muttered his request at Eric at the bar and been handed a lukewarm plate immediately, placing himself in the darkest corner of the room to avoid the run-of-the-mill mollies and their sharp tongues, sleepy as he was.</p>
<p>"Ooooh, look 'oo's left 'er doss and joined us mere mortals," a worn-out older bloke at a nearby table had started, just as Crawly dug into his highly mediocre ale-and-liver pie.</p>
<p>"Looks like he needs a meal, don't it boys. All bones and no meat on that chicken," a slightly younger, pudgier man joined in. "Raphael, is it? Nice of you to make han appearance, dove." Crawly had very nearly smiled at him before restraining himself to a nod and lifting his ale in greeting.</p>
<p>"Don't bother with 'er," the third man joined in. He was sweating beneath his black hair, having just come in from the back rooms and crashed down on a chair that looked far too small for him. The powder he'd slapped on earlier was coming off in flakes, revealing the pockmarks underneath. "Finks she's far too good for the likes of us just 'cus she's bagged a few posh ones and 'as a few good years in 'er still." All three looked up at him. Crawly chewed on a particularly dogged piece of liver. They kept looking at him.</p>
<p>"Never said that," he'd eventually relented.</p>
<p>"You're all as good as each other," had come a drunken fourth voice from an ancient, dirty grey coat sagging over a pint of brown ale in the opposite corner. "Filthy scum all of you."</p>
<p>"Oh, fuck off Hastur, you bloated pustule of a man," the old guy had glibbed with the harried air of having done so endless times before.</p>
<p>"You all ought to be hung." Hastur spat, literally, on the floor.</p>
<p>The pockmarked one had kept his eyes on Crawly despite the much easier new target, Crawly had felt them lingering on him until a moment later, when his unlikely saviour made himself known.</p>
<p>The air had changed before Hastur's spit even reached the grimy old floorboards.</p>
<p>"MR. HASTUR!"</p>
<p>The deep, shocking bellow froze them all to the spot, helpless to do anything than wait as the tell-tale clunk of a cane and two feet slowly ascended a staircase behind the bar that Crawly hadn't even known was there. He watched, mesmerised, as Hastur and the others shrunk back with every clunk.</p>
<p>Clunk, clunk, clunk.</p>
<p>"Mr. Haylayle, sir, I didn't know you'd be-"</p>
<p>"Near enough to hear you slander our own?" A black horned buck's head cane emerged along with a long, pale, elegant hand. The rest of Haylayle followed, drawing Crawly's breath away. The man – though calling him a man seemed rather too simple – came to a stop, stock still, teeth gnarled at Hastur. They looked sharp in the flickering greenish light of the Den. His furiously cold eyes stared unblinkingly at the slurring blond now trembling slightly in his coat.</p>
<p>"They're nothing like me, sir," Hastur answered, stupidly and angrily. "They're a bunch of… A bunch of…" His voice petered off. He seemed to have finally got a handle on his loathing, though far, far too late for his own good.</p>
<p>"Stand up, Mr. Hastur, if you'd be so kind," raging fury boiling down to sickly sweet, mellowing honey, leaving Hastur with no chance of escape in its thick stickiness.</p>
<p>Another three clunks of the cane accompanied Haylayle's long legs across the floor. Hastur stood up clumsily, every little trace of colour gone from his face.</p>
<p>"Now let's see, Mr. Hastur… I need your arms and legs working so that you can still carry whatever you need for me. Need most of your hands for holding things." He looked Hastur over slowly, precisely. "But… yes. Yes, I think just a little something should do, shouldn't it? Hold out your fingers, please." Hastur was nowhere near short, but he seemed tiny next to Haylayle and withered further as he held out shaking, grubby hands.</p>
<p>Haylayle unleashed a deadly smile and gave a little nod that made Hastur shrink back even further. "Yes, that should do. You just need a little reminder, don't you, Mr. Hastur? A little reminder of what happens when we even think about betraying each other here at Beelzebub's. Grab your little finger, Mr. Hastur, tightly with your other hand. Oh, whichever one, you choose." He chuckled at Hastur's confusion. "Now, pull it back."</p>
<p>Hastur looked at him, terrified, gripping his own little finger tightly.</p>
<p>Haylayle simply smiled at him. "Keep pulling, Mr. Hastur. That's it."</p>
<p>"Please sir, please-"</p>
<p>"No-no, keep going. Come on, down towards your wrist, there's a good lad." The shorter man was rapidly turning grey, reduced to a shaking, whimpering mess as he pressed his own finger unnaturally far. Haylayle merely tutted at him, unblinkingly.</p>
<p>"I'm sorry. I'm sorry, I'll apologise, I'll-"</p>
<p>"Oh, you certainly will. Once we're done here. Now put your back into it, Hastur."</p>
<p>Hastur's whimpers turned to quiet, stifled sobs, then to open cries as his one hand pushed the other little finger more and more absurdly back towards his wrist. The cold, demonic sneer stayed on Haylayle's face until-</p>
<p>"AAAAAAARGH-"</p>
<p>- a loud crack had Hastur collapse back into his seat, the sweat obvious on his face despite the terrible lighting.</p>
<p>Haylayle gave another flash of a nod, and any trace of his cold fury and burning eyes disappeared with the same movement. Hastur looked at his hand, wide-eyed, and shuddered violently at the finger sticking out from his hand at a sickening angle, little whimpers ringing across the room. "That's it, Mr. Hastur," Haylayle added almost gently. Let's give you a chance to catch your breath."</p>
<p>Crawly felt nearly as sick as Hastur looked, though he'd shaken off any trace of it before Haylayle turned his icy eyes his way.</p>
<p>"Mr. Raphael. I must admit I did not expect to see you down here." The cold, dangerous assessed him openly, and Crawly had never been happier that he'd taken the time to get properly dressed in a clean and respectable shirt and pair of modern trousers. Haylayle's eyes ran back up to his face again and smiled. It sent a shiver down Crawly's spine. "How is our tenant settling in?"</p>
<p>Crawly swallowed once, then painted a smile onto his face, hung an arm over his uncomfortable chair in a display of nonchalance. "Oh, very well, thank you Mr. Haylayle. The furniture has arrived and it is much along the lines of what I wanted. It looks very pretty up there by now. Thank you very much." Hastur heaved in the opposite corner of the room, and Crawly made his decision. "You should come up and see it some time." He leant back in the chair, looking up at Mr. Haylayle.</p>
<p>"Oh, I believe I will. If you'll have me." He forced his lips into an uneasy smile.</p>
<p>"Of course, Mr. Haylayle. Any time." He hesitated for a moment. Thought through his potential moves and turned the smile into a slow, deliberate smirk. "As long as it's between 4 and 6 on Thursdays."</p>
<p>He daren't breathe, heart pumping in his throat. The other boys stared at him. The scent of sick spread slowly through the room.</p>
<p>He counted fourteen heartbeats before his landlord's handsome, terrifying face erupted in a sharp-toothed grin. "Very well. Thursday it is. Make it 4 to 7."</p>
<p>Crawly got on his feet, desperate to get back upstairs and away from the oppressive smell of vomit. He forced himself to mirror Haylayle's slow, considered movements when he pushed in his chair, folded his napkin next to his half-eaten pie.</p>
<p>"Perhaps you could bring some decent food, Mr. Haylayle, something not from here," he added as he looked through his eyelashes at him. "I've got a good bottle or two. We could celebrate my moving in. You know. Do it with style."</p>
<p>He'd been rewarded with another calculating smile and a slow incline of the head. "We could, Mr. Raphael." Mr. Haylayle turned back to the opposite corner of the room. "Now scarper off upstairs before we get back to Mr. Hastur's other hand. Nothing that an exquisite young thing like you needs to see. Mr. Hastur. Time for the other one."</p>
<p>Crawly had barely dared to look around at the others before he took his advice, taking the inner-house stairs for once.</p>
<p>
  <em>Beelzebub's, Limeburner Lane, 10<sup>th</sup> May1814</em>
</p>
<p>The rain had subsided, leaving behind a beautiful rainbow on the other side of the Thames and the clear, clean type of quiet which only exists immediately following a thunderstorm.</p>
<p>The house, too, was quiet, unusually so, tidy and orderly as it always turned during one of Mr. Haylayle's visits. So quiet that Crawly could follow the quiet thump of a cane hit the mint green carpet on the stairs – his main stairs – even as they began their ascent two floors below.</p>
<p>The thing was. The thing was. Crawly knew Lucian Haylayle could be dangerous. He'd seen it with his own eyes.</p>
<p>But really, he'd actually been protecting the boys, then, hadn't he. His sort – well, not his sort exactly, but… well. They had hard enough lives, didn't they, boys and men like him.</p>
<p>He'd showed Hastur his place, the idiot had been stupid enough to forget it. Terrifying, sure, but Crawly didn't need to know what was down there, below the den. Didn't concern him, and he didn't want it to. He was just a tenant, a business partner, of sorts.</p>
<p>And he was the perfect landlord for someone like Crawly. Not that there was anyone quite <em>like</em> Crawly, as far as he knew. And he was exciting. So very exciting. And handsome, refined to his very fingertips, enthralling; Mr. Haylayle spoke with a deep, assured bass whose every perfectly enunciated syllable reverberated deep inside one's bones. And the thing was…</p>
<p>He'd treated Crawly with the utmost care the three Thursdays they'd met so far.</p>
<p>The cane made its way down the hall, and Crawly closed <em>The Odyssey </em>around a finger, shimmying down the banyan to just past his shoulder and ignoring his heart thumping wildly in its ribcage. He rested the arm with the book against his raised knee, leant back in the windowsill for full effect. The very picture of interrupted innocence. He damned the thunderstorm for having disappeared behind him and put on a playful smirk to make up for it, allowing just a little more of the damning temptress into the performance too.</p>
<p>Put on a show.</p>
<p>There came the knock on the door, two sharp, commanding sounds.</p>
<p>The thing was, Mr. Haylayle liked to play with him. </p>
<p>“Come in, Mr. Haylayle.”</p>
<p>His other patrons came to Crawly to chase their own quick release, out as soon as possible so that they could forget anything had ever happened. Haylayle, on the other hand, seemed to thrive on chasing Crawly's own pleasure. To take his time and observe every little change in Crawly's face as he slowly unravelled in front of him, to soak up every little vulnerability that Crawly couldn't quite disguise past a certain point.</p>
<p>The door creaked open. Mr. Haylayle looked as pristine as ever, dressed in an all-black evening coat. He glanced at the opened wine and glasses at the table by the settee, then at Crawly in the window, and unleashed that sharp-toothed grin of his, sending a shiver down Crawly’s back.</p>
<p>“Mr. Raphael. You truly are a most accommodating host.” </p>
<p>Crawly laughed. “Of course. Anything for you, Mr. Haylayle.”</p>
<p>"Why don't you come pour us both a glass of wine and make yourself comfortable on the settee."</p>
<p>He was always calm, so devastatingly calm. He showed no weakness. He sat down in the matching armchair, adjusted the knees of his trousers when he did so, making sure there wasn't so much as a crinkle to fault. He would remain there, Crawly knew, until Crawly was burning up with desire. Until he nearly begged for him. He would take his time.</p>
<p>Crawly offered him his glass of wine, and Haylayle gestured to put it on the table in front of him.</p>
<p>"On the settee, please, Raphael. Why don't you read aloud from your book today – what is it, <em>The</em> <em>Odyssey</em>? Greek or a translation?"</p>
<p>"Translation." Crawly sprawled out on the opposite end of the settee, making sure the banyan left a little to the imagination, another layer to play with and peel back. A piece of protection, a part of him whispered, however frail.</p>
<p>Haylayle would watch and instruct, his beautiful, unrelenting eyes catching every little sign of pleasure and every little emotion Crawly couldn't help but give away, eventually. He would sit there calm and cold as a statue until Crawly pleaded to be touched, begged for release, watching every slip in Crawly's performance, seeing every crack in his mask. And therein lay the danger.</p>
<p>"Wonderful. Now, open up your robe and take yourself in hand." Haylayle's lethal eyes grew harder, though they barely dipped below Crawly's own. "That's it, Raphael, just so. No – no moving, not yet. Keep still and read until I tell you otherwise. From the start, then." Lucian Haylayle leant back and took a sip of wine, just the faintest brush of amusement on his thin, hard lips as he closed his eyes and let Crawly read to him.</p>
<p>Beelzebub's was the safest place he could be, it was true, but Crawly was well aware he'd made a deal with the devil in moving here.</p>
<p>Crawly had never been one to let an opportunity pass by. He couldn't afford to. He didn't want to. He knew how to look out for himself and believed he could match Mr. Haylayle's game.</p>
<p>Besides, he'd already made the damned deal. Might as well enjoy the ride.</p>
<p>Crawly gave his landlord one little smirk before he looked back to the book and started, almost unaffected. For now.</p>
<p>"<em>Sing in me, Muse, and through me tell the story</em></p>
<p>
  <em>of that man skilled in all ways of contending,</em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>the wanderer, h- harried for years on end,</em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>after he plundered the stronghold</em>
</p>
<p><em>of the proud height of Troy</em>…"</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  
</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>IT'S MR. CRAWLY'S TURN AND GOOD LORD, JUST LOOK AT HIM IN ALL HIS SULTRY SPLENDOUR. I CAN'T LOOK AWAY. THOSE EYES AND, WELL, THE REST OF HIM.</p>
<p>Please leave kudos and/or comments if you can - they're the best thing ever!</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0003"><h2>3. The Delights of Depravity</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>Mr. Crawly visits a dear friend. Mr. Fortescue is visited by... well. An acquaintance, and learns entirely too much about a certain Madame Potts's past.</p>
          </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <em>Tuesday 17<sup>th</sup> May 1814</em>
</p><p>The following week passed by with very little in the way of interruptions to the normal schedule of our resident in the City and one very loud interruption to the schedule of his counterpart in Soho.</p><p>
  <em>The City</em>
</p><p>Mr. Anthony Crawly spent the week reading up on his Homer in preparation for the upcoming Thursday, Mr. Haylayle having declared that he would not appear again the next two weeks. He endured visits by two of his other gentlemen, who proved as reliably easily-pleased as ever, and otherwise tended to the two houseplants which he acquired on the Friday, having seen the first winter garden of his life that same morning when calling upon his third patron at his home and discovered that plants were a thing the fashionable upper circles liked to bring inside, for some ineffable reason.</p><p>The patron, a Lord M--, had been more than a little on edge at having Crawly in his house, even if he'd proposed the situation himself, and had taken very little persuading in handing over two of the smaller plants from his conservatory before they'd turned to business matters. Mr. Crawly had left a meagre half hour later not much worse for wear and with two verdant and luscious new possessions.</p><p>They'd been a pain to carry back into the city, but now that they were there in his apartment, Crawly found that he liked them: They added a certain vitality to the off-grey tones of his drawing room. He'd chosen ones which he'd been promised rarely erupted into flowers, considering teasing out their blossoming a challenge and knowing he'd be perfectly fine if they were never to show off their more colourful side in any case: He never did like to be outshone, as he reminded them very strictly at least thrice a day.</p><p>
  <em>Soho</em>
</p><p>A little over a mile west, in Soho, Mr. Aziraphale Fortescue was just about to receive a visit of his own, though one of a much more salubrious persuasion. He had come home from his usual midday stroll on the previous day to find a calling card crudely stuffed under his door, which he supposed was his own fault entirely, having been so thoughtless as to go out at the usual calling hour and careless enough not to have a single servant to answer the door in his stead.</p><p>The printed card read as follows, with specifics in ink:</p><p><em>Mme. Marjorie Potts respectfully requests the company of </em>Mr. Aziraphale Fortescue<em> at </em>3:30<em> on </em>Thursday the 19<sup>th</sup> May<em> for an afternoon of readings and intimate intellectual discussion at her salon.</em></p><p>
  <em>Signed, Madame Marjorie Potts</em>
</p><p> </p><p>It was accompanied by a hastily scribbled note in charcoal pencil:</p><p>
  <em>Mr. Fortescue,</em>
</p><p>
  <em>I must admit to being a little depressed at my misfortune in finding you out; I should very much like to make a better acquaintance of you. But as you can see, my endeavours were successful, and I look forward to seeing you again on Thursday. I propose we meet with Chester-Monroe outside the Horseshoe and Thistle at 2:30 on Thursday so that I may walk you to the salon and introduce you in proper fashion and, should the walk prove pleasant, as I trust it will, as my friend.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>Till then,</em>
</p><p>
  <em>Arthur Peeveridge</em>
</p><p>
  
</p><p>Mr. Fortescue set out to spend the next three days learning as much about his hostess-to-be and her salon as possible – within the boundaries of decency, of course. He'd never attended a proper salon before and, having spent the majority of his youth at sea, was sinfully uneducated in the goings-on of London's finest and mightiest.</p><p>And thus, the visit. It was to be Aziraphale's first at his new apartment, and he prepared for it with all the jitters of a newly made mother showing off her firstborn babe to her in-laws for the first time.</p><p>Mr. Jonathan Anderson was an old acquaintance – in the deepest, darkest depths of his own mind, Aziraphale balked to call him a friend – who'd been a fellow midshipman aboard his uncle's vessel, the Serendipity, until he'd decided that army life was more his style and jumped ship at 18.</p><p>From what Aziraphale had been able to gather, Mr. Anderson's primary objection to the King's Royal Navy had been the severe lack of fresh high-society gossip, which seemed to make him wither away in the way that a lack of fresh citrus might affect the rest of the crew.</p><p>They had seen each other again in Belgium in 1811 during one of those odd times when the Army and the Navy crossed paths in their common fight against the French.</p><p>They'd proceeded to spend a tolerable two weeks drinking their way through the dullest parts of the American blockade on a little island off Massachusetts in 1812.</p><p>All the while, Anderson had been climbing his way through different posts within the army before landing the position of his dreams last autumn – that of Quartermaster within the Household Cavalry – which meant that Anderson now spent his days guarding the sick king at Buckingham House in London, leaving him in an ideal location from which to sniff out all the high-brow gossip he could wish for.</p><p>And permanently in London, like Aziraphale, who had reminded himself strictly and several times during the past three months that it simply would not do to ignore him any longer. Gossip and rumours were not something Aziraphale normally liked to partake in; understandably so considering the circumstances of his family and so on, but, well, needs must. So the previous day, Aziraphale had donned his uniform, which provided much easier access to most above-board places in the capital, and set off to Buckingham House as soon as he'd found the salon invitation on his floor, having luck in finding Anderson there and enticing him to visit the very next day with promises of interesting news.</p><p>Besides, he really wasn't as bad as all that, Aziraphale scolded himself; Mr. Anderson was a decent enough sort at heart, really. Beneath it all.</p><p>A decent enough sort who had, in the two years they hadn't seen each other, made the astonishing decision to grow sideburns roughly the size of Belgium, as Aziraphale discovered when they floated through his door at a few minutes past two in the afternoon. Andersen was just a year older than Aziraphale; the sideburns made him look at least fifteen years his senior. Naturally, being well-bred and generally charitable, Aziraphale valiantly ignored them in favour of a welcoming smile.</p><p>"Fortescue! How do you do, how <em>do </em>you do?" The quartermaster burst into Aziraphale's flat with all the vigour of a Jack Russell terrier and the strangely clipped movements of the army man. Anderson gave his host a regimented bow and immediately took it upon himself to inspect the apartment, striding around with ruddy cheeks and hands clasped tightly behind him.</p><p>"Is that mahogany?"</p><p>"Pine. Dyed."</p><p>"Ah."</p><p>Aziraphale followed him around, half because etiquette dictated he act the gracious host, half because he did not trust his friend not to look into his every drawer and cupboard if left unattended. In any case, the other's impromptu inspection gave Aziraphale as good a reason as any to look around his little apartment himself, which was a delight to him still.</p><p>Aziraphale had never had a place of his own before. And it was a lovely place, he thought, at a decent enough location, even if he'd come to find that Soho had not quite managed to make herself as enticing to the city's finest as her adjoining neighbourhoods. He, however, liked the area immensely; it was near enough to his aunt and uncle's townhouse to be deemed acceptable by that more important branch of the family. It was far enough away from them that he could be easily forgiven for not presenting himself at theirs all too often. Now that he had some independence for the first time in his life, free to spend some of his time for himself and without the physical restraints, at least, of a ship, he found he rather liked it.</p><p>Despite the unfortunate manner in which he had taken up the residence, and the pressing matters which made it difficult for him to relax at present, he had felt relaxed here and loved the flat from the moment he cast his eyes on it – and Aziraphale was not usually at all the type of fool to believe in love at first sight. The flat was located on a corner lot which brought in a good amount of light and allowed him the luxury of keeping an eye on his surroundings from the privacy of his own abode in two separate directions. He'd even been pleasantly surprised at finding a calming quality in the gentle ringing of the bell whenever a customer entered the newly opened bookshop below.</p><p>"Well, Fortescue, it's an odd sort of place but it isn't half-bad. Roomy at least," came the booming judgement from Aziraphale's bedroom. "How're you finding it?"</p><p>"You know, I like it – very much in fact! The light in here in the mornings is quite breath-taking, and I've got space for all my-…"</p><p>Anderson turned on his heel, leaving Aziraphale to follow, and went to look out a window in the main room. "Hmm. How're you finding living above trade, old boy? It's not exactly the <em>done thing</em> with you toffs, is it?"</p><p>"Well, you know how it is, with being off-ship and on half-pay and such…" Aziraphale indicated his desk table, which was the only proper table he had, disguising the nervous shaking of his hand by picking up a crystal bottle he'd set out especially. He poured them both a glass of madeira in hope of changing the subject to much less discomforting matters than his acquisition of the flat and general financial situation, at least, and perhaps already on to the subject on which he urgently required information.</p><p>It wasn't that Anderson had ever needed any sort of push in order to talk, but a little lubrication wouldn’t go amiss, and Aziraphale might need it to get through the next hour. He managed to herd his guest into a chair and avoided spilling his drink when the other smashed their glasses together.</p><p>"Half-pay, eh? I guess the war's coming to an end, won't be need for all you lieutenants then. Should've joined the army, my friend." Anderson took a great big gulp of Aziraphale's precious madeira, sideburns twitching with pleasure as he smacked his lips together. "More steady work and none of being stuck on a stinking boat for months on end with nothing but a bunch of sweaty old sailors. Forget that 'a girl in every port' tosh; in the army, you'd get all the girls you could ever want – any time."</p><p>"Oh, I'm sure," said Aziraphale and took a little sip of his madeira.</p><p>"The red uniform will get you anywhere, let me tell you. And those American girls… almost as bad as the Belgian women…" The quartermaster shifted in his wooden seat, sat a little more upright, and chuckled at his host. "Probably never been a problem for you, though, has it?"</p><p>Aziraphale's heart dropped, painfully, into his stomach.</p><p>It was a blinding, terrible, icy second before Anderson continued.</p><p>"You've always been quite the handsome chap," he barked. "I'm sure girls've lined themselves up in every port."</p><p>Aziraphale's heart made it back, pulsing loudly in his ears. "Oh, I- I wouldn't know. Well, I mean, of course, there's been girls who've, who've been interested…"</p><p>His visitor, always keen on a good story, leant forward, listening far more attentively for once than Aziraphale should have liked. He held his glass up, quite absentmindedly, in his right hand and Aziraphale was reminded of his father's red setters when they awaited the order to go fetch a big, fat, still-warm duck. Except that the hand which swished about his glass a bit was far less furry, a lot sharper. "Well, let me get a bit more of this in you, and you'll be singing like good old Evelyn down at the docks, I assure you." He sat back a little, considered his statement. "Though I hear she's turned to wailing recently. Apparently she's got a bun in the oven. Pity, she was a pretty girl. But really, what on earth was she expecting?"</p><p>Aziraphale barely paid attention. He focused on his breathing, let it even out, got back in control of his body. Calm and steady.</p><p>It lasted for all of a minute.</p><p>"Anyway, Fortescue. Come on – spill. What's the deal with this flat here… I should've thought your parents might've put you up somewhere half-decent?"</p><p>"Oh, no, I'm paying for this myself, as a matter of fact." Aziraphale couldn’t quite keep the edge out of his voice. Not that Anderson would ever notice.</p><p>The visitor was, however, left utterly and uncharacteristically speechless for all of half a second, turning his entire whiskered attention on Aziraphale. "Are you <em>really</em>?"</p><p>Aziraphale's foot, he realised, was tapping out an unsteady rhythm against the table leg. He forced it into obedience, stilling it. His fingernail began to tap a shrill little beat on his crystal glass instead. He set the glass down, folded his hands in his lap, and smiled. It had always been his best defence. "Am I really what, Anderson?"</p><p>"Paying for it all by yourself?"</p><p>Aziraphale nodded and picked up the glass again. The sweet, spicy burn of the drink eased up his throat a little. Before he knew it, he'd emptied the glass.</p><p>"…But… Old chum, on <em>half-pay</em>? I can't imagine one can afford even a place like this on those kinds of wages."</p><p>Aziraphale found the bottle again and poured himself another. The neck of the bottle clinked against the rim of his glass. He couldn't stop it. "Oh, you know, savings and such…" He offered the bottle, managed to keep it almost still, and smiled, wide and open at his chum. Broadside. Blinding. "And it's not all bad, I assure you. Being on leave certainly has its advantages. I've been able to pick up on learning again."</p><p>Anderson scoffed into his glass. "You always were very keen on that sort of thing, old chum."</p><p>"Well, of course…" Aziraphale leant forwards, horribly close to those badger-like monstrosities at each side of Anderson's face, and lowered his voice a little to deliver his bait. He took a breath through his nose. It wasn't so very different to aiming a gun, really. Preparing for a shot. A quiet, clear calm came over him. "I've been rehashing my knowledge of the Classics recently, and attended various debates and coffee house discussions and the sort. Very interesting stuff, all of it."</p><p>Anderson looked severely unimpressed. Well, time to pull the trigger. Throw out the line.</p><p>Aziraphale leant in a little further. "And quite by accident, I have found myself receiving an invitation to a real salon. I believe it's rather a good one. I don't know if you'd know?..."</p><p>Anderson entire face lifted in open curiosity as he, too, leant in. "Well, which one is it?" He had the decency to clear his throat. "If I might ask?"</p><p>"I've been invited along to… Madame Potts, is it?" Aziraphale smiled and watched his old chum sit back, mouth agape and eyes impressed and just a little predatory, Mr. Anderson transforming from red setter to bloodhound before his very eyes.</p><p>Anderson slammed the wooden table between them, quite inelegantly. " Well, Fortescue, you've gone and bloody done it! That's a <em>proper </em>salon and then some, done after all the finest French fashions. If one's allowed to say such a thing. Well, they can't fight for shits, can they, but they do know how to put on an evening, eh?"</p><p>His host chuckled along, egging him on without much effort at all.</p><p>"Your hostess-to-be <em>certainly</em> would not mind me saying so; it is a well-known fact that she loved the French even during their ridiculous revolution." Anderson got up, strode back and forth on his side of the table as he spoke, unable to contain his excitement.</p><p>"I suppose you know that she started out an actress, came from nothing, did fairly well for herself on stage back when she was young and beautiful and then took off – well, it is said, I'm just reporting what I've heard, you know – it is <em>said</em> that she took off with a French duke who, ah… oh, you're a bloke, you catch my drift." He lifted half an eyebrow in expectation of a reaction.</p><p>Aziraphale nodded once more. He always caught Anderson's drift. Everyone always did; his drift wafted off him like bad cologne.</p><p>"Well, <em>ze frog</em> had his merry way with her, of course, and then deposited her with a sister of his once he got married. She was introduced to the French court with all that <em>that</em> entails…" He paused once more for emphasis and Aziraphale struggled not to laugh at him. He wasn't quite certain he could pull it off as good-natured.</p><p>"<em>Scandalous</em>!" It took so little on Aziraphale's part.</p><p>"Yes - well. It is <em>said</em> that the good Marjorie Potts took to, ah, to <em>that world</em> like a duck to water. She was hardly 25 then, still a passable age, and…" The bloodhound was off, tracing the apparently wild and frenzied trail of Marjorie Potts' life. He needed very little encouragement, setting off again whenever he paused on the merest flicker of a raised eyebrow or "hmm" or an outraged tut from Mr. Fortescue.</p><p>In the end, the quartermaster stayed for an hour and a half and enjoyed himself immensely. His host found the visit very fruitful, at least, although he rather wished he'd thought to set out some biscuits. He listened, however, with focused attention for the most part and was rewarded with a great deal of information and some shred of it, at the very least, bound to be close enough to the truth to be of value.</p><p>The young Marjorie Potts, he learnt, had spent seven years in France before the Revolution, eventually settling into respectability and finding herself a comfortable and interesting life as the nurse and closest confidante of the well-known Parisian salon hostess, Madame Necker, learning the art of hosting these social and intellectual clubs from the very best and finding in Madame Necker a wise tutor and warm friend.</p><p>When the Revolution broke out, however, Mistress Potts had ended up one of its less unfortunate victims and, being English, had had to make a rather hasty retreat when it began to take off in order to save her head.</p><p>Without Mistress Potts beside her, the kind older lady had passed away the very next year, leaving most of her fortune to her only daughter but her opulent furniture and second-best jewellery to her English friend. Mistress Potts had received her gifts in London with a grateful but heavy heart and, when fortune and the Earl of Shadwell allowed her the means to procure an appropriate location some years later, had set up a salon in the French style in her great friend's memory.</p><p>"I am not so certain that the great Madame Necker would be entirely pleased with the gesture today," Mr. Anderson confided over his fourth sloppy glass. "Mistress Potts was always rather more radical than befits a woman – frankly, she is rather more radical than most men would dare to be too – and while her salon sessions are highly priced by those who manage to gain access for their, ah, liberal discussions and excellent company, well…"</p><p>Mr. Anderson looked around and lowered his voice with all the flair of the drunkards down by the docks. "…It is said that the good lady has made it all rather too… <em>Parisian </em>and also runs a more salacious business on the side. One to which only a very small circle of gentlemen are ever introduced, you understand."</p><p>Aziraphale fought a bloody and heroic internal battle to keep his eyes from rolling. Anderson added in a stage whisper, though there was no-one else in the room: "No one is quite certain whether Shadwell acquiesces to this business or not. Now Shadwell-" he looked, unfocused, at Aziraphale, "-he's not a family friend, is he?"</p><p>"Can't say I've ever met him, no."</p><p>Anderson looked delighted. He'd seated himself again and put a heavy hand on Aziraphale's shoulder – a friendly gesture, but by how hard he was leaning, it seemed as if he also rather needed the support. "Well, Fortescue, my friend, I assure you, you have <em>never</em> heard of anyone more strange than he…"</p><p>Eventually, when Mr. Anderson had drifted off to other news, Aziraphale finally relented and squirmed out from under his hand, popping off to add some biscuits to the whole affair.</p><p>Mr. Anderson was more than happy to fill Aziraphale's every crunchy silence with details of other current news of high society. "It is <em>said</em>, and I heard it from a close friend of a friend of his personal physician's assistant, that the King does not even know he is also king of Hannover. A sad state of affairs I'm sure the Prince Regent is only too happy about," he'd finally concluded, on the way out of the door.</p><p>Aziraphale had shut the door with a sigh of relief before the quartermaster had even made it to the bottom of his staircase. Though he felt in urgent need of a brandy and a wash, Mr. Fortescue sat down first to diligently scribble out a careful three pages of notes before he allowed himself those sinless pleasures.</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>Bedford Place, Bloomsbury, London, Thursday 19<sup>th</sup> May 1814</em>
</p><p>Marjorie Potts's flat was located so near the British Museum that its address tilted rather more towards the delicious than the simply tasteful. The couples, little groups and singular gentlemen walking around the broad new pavements outside the rows and rows of tall, elegant houses were nearly all of a similarly excellent presentation, showing off the finest new fashions Britannia could manage: The highest waistlines and the prettiest bonnets for the ladies, broad shoulders and tight waists for the men – fads which Crawly had no objection to neither wearing nor seeing. Besides, none of the other gentlemen wore their tailcoats quite as well as Crawly, who was very aware of that fact as he roamed down the street and took hold of the fleur-de-lis door knocker in the middle of the only magenta door in Bedford Place.</p><p>It caught him by surprise when the good lady answered the door herself, face half made up and a little out of breath. She looked much nicer without her usual make-up. Crawly had never quite had the heart to tell her so.</p><p>"Madame Tracy!" He gave a deep and affectionate bow.</p><p>Not quite satisfied with such formality, she stretched up and gave him a kiss on the cheek, quite carelessly smearing white powder on his closely-shaven jaw.</p><p>"Hello pet." She took his face in her hands, cleaning off the powder with the ruthless, thorough hand of someone who cared. "Oh I was so hoping you could make it tonight, and then I saw you coming down the street looking all handsome and just had to come down and say hi." She took a quick glance down at her bare feet through long eyelashes. "I do hope you don't mind my state of disrepair."</p><p>"Not at all." Crawly laughed more openly than he had for weeks and looked her up and down. She was wearing a bright yellow dress, the height of fashion. "Nice dress, it suits you. But we'd better get inside, can't let anyone see you like this."</p><p>She gave a wicked little wink and beckoned him inside, slamming the massive high door into its equally massive doorframe behind him. "Thanks dove, got it made last month. Got the silk smuggled over from Marseilles." She set off soundlessly down the high-ceilinged, marble-floored hallway.</p><p>"How are you, Madame?"</p><p>"Oh, I am excellent as always. Knees aren't what they were, but they don't need to be no more, do they? Now hurry up and get to my private rooms before anyone sees us like this and gets the wrong idea." They giggled like debutantes on the way up two high flights of stairs, though none of the servants preparing the drawing rooms and parlour paid them any attention as they swept and up another floor.</p><p>On reaching her private rooms, Madame Potts disappeared immediately behind a peacock dressing screen in a flourish of rich yellow muslin to finish off her face and head. The latter peeked out from the other side of the screen a moment later sporting one of her enormous and enormously outdated wigs. Crawly hated them. This one was at least a slightly younger colour – yellow – than the whites and greys she usually sported.</p><p>He bit back his fashion advice, having tried unsuccessfully to persuade her of the merits of uncovered hair, and resigned himself to closing the door behind them.</p><p>"Ve veal queftion if," she started before pulling a few hairpins from her mouth and fastening them to the wig. "The real question is, how are <em>you</em>, Anthony?"</p><p>No one else called him Anthony; he couldn’t remember the last time he'd heard it spoken.</p><p>The glorious head and hairdo did not disappear back behind the screen. Instead, she watched him, a little too closely, the soft pink rouge on her cheeks belying the sharpness in her eyes. Crawly shrugged and crossed the room to sit on her ridiculous bed, tugging his long legs up to cross them on the bird-style cover before remembering the unforgiving material of his brand-new pantaloons. The buttons running all the way down the sides of them dug into his skin, but he persisted in his endeavour and was briefly victorious. There was a loose thread on her flowery sheets he couldn't help but pick at.</p><p>"Yeah, fine. Thanks for asking." He shot her a grin. "Now! Tell me where you got that dress."</p><p>She appeared in her entirety, wig a little loose on her head as she moved. "No, pet. Go on, tell me what's been happening. Haven't seen you for, what, two months now, have I?" Her voice was suddenly all gentle. It felt like nails on a chalkboard. She waited a few too many breaths for an answer before changing tack, finally disappearing back behind the screen.</p><p>"Still waiting for an honest answer, love."</p><p>"I've been good. Really good, actually."</p><p>"Hmmm?"</p><p>"It's just… I have a new sort of, ah, patron. Not quite sure what the deal is yet. Comes around on Thursdays now. Some of them, anyway. Never quite know. So it might interfere with your salon, sometimes. Sorry."</p><p>There was a brief pause behind the screen before the good madame answered. "Oh, I see. Well, pop round any time, pet. Outside the salon days too."</p><p>She waited for an answer. None came, apart from a half-verbal shrug. "Go on, then. Spill. Is he any good?"</p><p>Crawly gave up on his crossed knees and flopped the rest of his lanky torso down on the soft bed instead. "Yeah," he grinned. "He is, actually."</p><p>"Ooo. Where'd you find him, then?"</p><p>"Oh, just around… through the house."</p><p>It was her turn to take her time with her answer. "…Through Beelzebub's, you mean?"</p><p>"…Yup."</p><p>"Hmm. No one too close to all that, I hope?"</p><p>Crawly fretted at the bedding again, eyes on the ceiling. It was full of ridiculous plastered cherubs. "Nah, 'course not."</p><p>"Anyone I'd know?"</p><p>"Nope. Just another posho, really."</p><p>"Alright then. Just watch yourself, duck, lots of bad people in a place like that. Don't get caught up too much. I mean it."</p><p>"You're the one who got me my flat there."</p><p>"I know, I know. Just keep your wits about you, is all."</p><p>"Do I ever not?"</p><p>Madame Potts chose that moment to walk out again, now in nearly-full battle regalia, including far too much powder and rouge to be deemed acceptable by anyone this side of the century or Channel. Crawly took her in from her furiously modern dress to the pre-revolution wig and couldn't help but smile, though it grew a little tenser as she turned to him.</p><p>"You know, you can always tell me. Anything you… I know it's a harsh world out there for..."</p><p>He glanced up at the cherubs on her ceiling. Hideous. "For degenerates like me?"</p><p>She smiled back at him, just a little thing, in the middle of putting on a pair of mint green heels that had been carelessly left by the bed. "For those of us who choose the road less travelled, pet. You've chosen a bit of a mountain trail."</p><p>A lethargic "hmm" came back to her from the bed and then, spurred on by the sudden energy of youth, Crawly burst up to offer her a hand while she got used to the shoes. "Anyone interesting joining tonight, then?"</p><p>"Eh. 's just another session on the ancients, I'm afraid. All the balding types will lap it up, you know how it is." Madame Potts always did seem to hold some particular resentment towards those who dared show off their scalp in the nude. In the three years he'd known her, Crawly had never quite been able to work out why. He hadn't quite mustered the courage to ask directly.</p><p>He vaguely wondered if she'd disown him if he ever lost his own rather luscious head of hair, if he made it that long at all.</p><p>She wobbled in his hand, bringing him back. "Been reading up on <em>The Odyssey</em>."</p><p>"Oh, well done, love, good for you. It's quite alright, isn't it?"</p><p>"Yeah, it's, it's definitely a thing."</p><p>She squeezed his hand. "I'm very proud of you, you know."</p><p>"For reading a book?"</p><p>She rolled her eyes and pulled his hand, bringing him with her on an experimental round of the room to test out the shoes. "Why'd you have to be like that, Mr. Crawly, hmm? Well, anyway, your reading'll come in handy for the first bit. Misters Park and Fitzroy will begin with presentations: Park on <em>The Odyssey… </em>Then Fitzroy on… Doric columns."</p><p>Crawly groaned. "I <em>know</em>, pet. I <em>know</em>, but Mr. Fitzroy has been begging to have a go for ages. And he <em>is </em>very knowledgeable, you must admit, I'm sure it won't be <em>quite</em> as dull as hell. Arthur's bringing along two friends; I promised I'd extend invitations. One's a professor at Cambridge, I believe, the other's a Fortescue, no clue which one or it's even the right type of Fortescue. I think he <em>might</em> be, though, possibly a lord, unless I'm much mistaken. And then I asked Mrs. Farlane that she lead the discussion on the Elgin Marbles."</p><p>"Well, that last bit sounds alright, at least. Do you think she'd let me see them one day?"</p><p>"Possibly, pet, but you got to talk to those people, then, you know? Make those types of connections. It's what the salon's for, you might as well. Or you could come with me next time I go see her."</p><p>"Yes, yes, alright."</p><p>"Or you could come with me next time I go see her."</p><p>"That'd be something."</p><p>There was another squeeze of his hand as she let him to her dresser, pouting and stretching her neck at him in the mirror. "Now, help me pick out my glitziest, most eye-catching jewellery, Anthony. Do you think silver or gold goes best with yellow?"</p><p>"Errrh."</p><p>"Quite right, I'll do both."</p><p>"Madame Tracy?"</p><p>"Mmmh?"</p><p>"D'you think we've got time to practise my French before the others arrive?"</p><p>"Naturellement, mon ami, we've got an hour or so."</p><p>"Thanks."</p><p>"Of course, duck." She sat up straight, adjusting her bosom in her slightly too lowcut dress in the mirror. "But first, help me tie this dress properly, nice and tight, there's a good boy."</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>
  
</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>Why hello Madame Tracy!</p><p>I PROMISE that the bois WILL be meeting next week, or just an hour from now in story-time.</p><p>Thank you so much for reading and following along on this possibly a tiny bit self-indulgent Regency ride! </p><p>And thank you to everyone who has left kudos, comments, bookmarked or subscribed - it's such a lovely thing to see, and really rather addictive. &lt;3</p>
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<a name="section0004"><h2>4. Keeping Watch</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>Aziraphale looked back, quickly, to where his eyes had just been, more on a hunch than anything else. Quite right, he caught a flash of eyes on him before their owner hastily looked away, shielded by the darkness of the corner tables, the light from the fire.</p><p>Perhaps it was an old acquaintance, some friend of his cousins.</p><p>Aziraphale let his head continue its slow turn, though he kept his eyes on that table, and sure enough, just a few moments later, what turned out to be a copper-haired man looked in his direction again.</p><p>This time, Aziraphale caught his eye a little more successfully. He couldn't make out much, backlit as he was from the fireplace behind him, apart from the striking red hair. Not quite knowing what to do with himself, he fell back on his natural good-natured inclinations, and gave the man a little smile.</p><p>The man looked away instantly.</p>
          </blockquote><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p><b>Author's Note:</b> Aaaaaaah, we're back. I am so sorry for the, erh, massive delay to this chapter, which is entirely my fault. I've had some... very weird weeks with some horrible news, moved to another part of the country, ended my job, gone back to uni... it's been A Lot. Stupidly, I've had this chapter - and Samthony's wonderful art - basically done for the entire time, I just had to write a new ending. So sorry. The next chapter will probably post in two weeks, but then I should be back to regular weekend posting. I'm not entirely happy with this chapter, but I figured it's good to just get it out... AND HAVE THE BOIS FINALLY MEET.</p><p><b>Artist's Note:</b> Thanks for bearing with me through rapid style changes as I try to figure out how to produce good art <i>fast</i>. Turns out doing weekly art for a fanfic means a breakneck pace, which is why Tracy was more of a sketch last week. I think we're hitting a groove though?! x - <a href="http://agardeneden.tumblr.com">aGardenEden</a></p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>It was not love at first sight, not at all. Both young men thought themselves so deeply rational that neither one even considered giving such a ridiculous notion time of day.</p><p>One was, for all his various faults and deep discrepancies, if not a good Englishman, then an Englishmen at the very least, and as the outside world had done its best to stress upon him, those types of vulgar passions were for the Continent or for women, and for continental women most of all. His parents had married for love despite the odds against them; it was true, and while he admired and loved them very much for that fact, he was also supremely well-aware of the great strife that a scandalous love affair such as theirs brought with it.</p><p>...He might occasionally give the notion time of <em>night</em>, in that curious moment of weakness between wakefulness and sleep, but it was always entirely unwillingly, as he often sought to reassure himself in the morning, when he woke up flushed and ashamed. He knew some place, deep within himself, that any type of romantic love was quite out of bounds for him.</p><p>The other just thought it was all a load of tosh, really. Most of the time. Some of the time.</p><p>There was, however, a little something there, from the moment they laid eyes on each other. Crawly might've called it interest, perhaps, or a certain suspicion. Fortescue… well. He wouldn't have dared to name it at all.</p><p> </p><p>Bedford Place, Thursday 19<sup>th</sup> May 1814</p><p>Madame Potts' salon, as it turned out, was much like the lady herself. Tastefully decorated for the most part, her handsome townhouse veered into the eccentric when you looked at any part of it too closely, from the pink marble floors to the gilded chairs. The effect was just mad enough to be charming and Aziraphale, to his surprise, felt much more at ease than he should have the moment he stepped through the only orange door on the street, despite the unspoken mission he was on.</p><p>Still, he determined to attempt to enjoy himself and to soak in the atmosphere until he could find an opening with his hostess.</p><p>It was not every day one got oneself invited to one of the finest salons in England after all.</p><p>Everyone else seemed equally pleased to be there and poised for a stimulating afternoon. The trills of pleasant conversation flowed down to greet him and his two companions as a warm first welcome before they even deposited their coats with the waiting footman – who was really quite unusually tall, dark and handsome, at the Madame's insistence, so everyone said.</p><p>The air even on the stairs in the hallway was thick with the sweet smell of tobacco, though its usual caffeine companion had given way to the milder notes of tea. Aziraphale, well-bred as he was, had allowed his companions to take the lead and reached the top of the stairs last of his little group. It gave him a chance to hold back a little and survey the room as he eased the tips of his gloves off his fingers, and to get a good look at their formidable hostess as she made her way towards them.</p><p>She paraded into the hallway, resolutely middle-aged and sporting an elaborate powdered wig which might charitably have been deemed fashionable some thirty years earlier, a youthful yellow empire dress that was rather too complimentary at the bust, and heavy, glittering jewellery around the hair and neckline which Aziraphale doubted had ever been in fashion anywhere.</p><p>Peeveridge bowed to her deeply and turned to his invitees. "Mr. Aziraphale Fortescue, Mr. Charles Chester-Monroe, please allow the pleasure of introducing you to my aunt, Mme. Marjorie Potts."</p><p>The gentlemen bowed, of course. She responded with a neat little curtsy and a sparkling smile to rival the glitter coming off all her bodily ornaments.</p><p>"Le pleaseur iz all mine, gentlemen, I am sure," she replied in a thick French accent, looking at each of them in turn with a look which didn't cause quite the intended reaction in Aziraphale. He smiled back nonetheless. "My dear nephew 'as promised me zat you will be excellent additions to tonight's discussions, and I trust zat you will not let us down."</p><p>Mr. Chester-Monroe nodded vigorously. The others awaited a more elaborate response from him. When none came, they turned to Aziraphale.</p><p>"I'm afraid your nephew has rather overestimated my abilities, Madame Potts," replied Aziraphale with a well-practised bow and smile. "I promise, however, that I will do my utmost to cause the least possible embarrassment to you as well as him."</p><p>"Well, ma cherie, zat iz all anyone really can 'ope for, iz it not?"</p><p>He inclined his head in agreement and smiled again – it came so easily to him – and she responded in kind, while Mr. Chester-Monroe took it upon himself to grab the reins of the conversation.</p><p>"I for one am very much looking forward to the discussion topics today. I was lucky enough to witness part of the Elgin Marbles being offloaded at the docks back in 1812," he offered. "Marvellous things, simply <em>marvellous</em>. I hear they are to be covered tonight by an expert?"</p><p>"Yes, although only towards ze end of ze event. Mrs. Annabelle Farlane will lead the discussion."</p><p>Chester-Monroe's eyebrows migrated northwards before they remembered themselves. "A lady? Well that is… marvellous." He turned towards the men. "Have you seen the Marbles, gentlemen?"</p><p>"Only in the periodicals," answered Peeveridge, looking to their hostess.</p><p>Aziraphale followed his lead. "I have, yes. Back in Athens too, in fact. Have <em>you</em>, Madame?"</p><p>"Yes, I 'ave, as a matteur of fact." Her heavily lidded eyes did not leave Chester-Monroe's, though they had certainly grown narrower. She was fanning herself rather aggressively, little puffs of air hitting the tuft of curl which Aziraphale had spent half an hour of the afternoon attempting to tame in a fit of nerves. "Several times 'ere in London. Ze curateur iz une good friend of mine."</p><p>Finally, Chester-Monroe lit up with excitement. "Is he really?"</p><p>"Mrs. Farlane iz 'is wife."</p><p>"Is that so?"</p><p>"Oui. She works alongside him." Her eyes remained relentlessly on Mr. Chester-Monroe.</p><p>Chester-Monroe sputtered for a response before he aborted further discussion of the uncomfortable subject of a female instructor and dived out the metaphorical window instead by launching into a monologue about an article on the Parthenon he'd read in some evening periodical or other.</p><p>Aziraphale did his best to listen attentively, he really did, but soon, he found to his great shame that he had entirely lost the thread of the scholar's offering. He decided that once he had already trespassed, he may as well reach for the apple and took the opportunity instead to take in his surroundings, allowing his eyes to glide from left to right as he would have done at sea.</p><p>It was a handsome room indeed, long and narrow in the modern fashion; its light blue walls reached a height of several magnificent metres and the large bay windows at one end gave an impressive view of the handsome, thoroughly respectable street below. Spread across several little round tables sat the evening's guests, thirty-five or so, most of them bathed in the flattering yellow light of the chandeliers and the fireplaces which were scattered along the walls. Many appeared to be deep in conversation already, though a few had sought refuge in the shadowy spots between the fireplaces and sat in…</p><p>Never mind. He kept scanning the room.</p><p>Quite a few women were present, Aziraphale noted, and thought of his sisters. His youngest, Annunciata, would have fit in well here. She could hold her own in conversation just as well as him by now, as he'd discovered to his surprise when he'd made it home for a few days before the call to London. Although he supposed no one present were quite as young as...</p><p>Aziraphale looked back, quickly, to where his eyes had just been, more on a hunch than anything else. Quite right, he caught a flash of eyes on him before their owner hastily looked away, shielded by the darkness of the corner tables, the light from the fire.</p><p>Perhaps it was an old acquaintance, some friend of his cousins.</p><p>Aziraphale let his head continue its slow turn, though he kept his eyes on that table, and sure enough, just a few moments later, what turned out to be a copper-haired man looked in his direction again.</p><p>This time, Aziraphale caught his eye a little more successfully. He couldn't make out much, backlit as he was from the fireplace behind him, apart from the striking red hair. Not quite knowing what to do with himself, he fell back on his natural good-natured inclinations, and gave the man a little smile.</p><p>The man looked away instantly.</p><p>Aziraphale deemed it a bad job and returned to the present conversation instead. He felt, however, those same eyes on him several more times as he was ushered towards a table and introduced to the five other ladies and gentlemen whom he, Peeveridge and Chester-Monroe were to be seated with.</p><p>They sat through a rather good presentation on and got into an excellent discussion of Homer; endured an… <em>educational</em> lecture and attempted discussion of some type of Greek column or other; and eventually ended up genuinely wrapped up in a passionate debate about those ever-so-talked-about Elgin Marbles at the end of the formal session, the discussion so riveting Aziraphale quite forgot about his primary objective for the evening as well as any odd straying eyes for a long, peaceful while.</p><p>***</p><p>The afternoon wore on, as such brittle things are wont to do. At the darker table by the wall, Crawly found himself comfortable contributing to the Homer discussion – he couldn't help but feel just a little pleased – while the subsequent presentation had him wishing a great big Greek column would fall on his head and end the misery of having to sit through what was quickly turning out to be one of the dullest contributions he had ever experienced at the salon. He looked around at his table companions and found their eyes equally glazed over, Mrs Elisabeth Fry scribbling little imaginary notes on the table with the end of her fan. Having ascertained that he would not stand out considerably in letting his eyes wander, he allowed them to do just that.</p><p>He was, as usual, seated at the corner table with whatever other odd birds and misfits attended the salon. They treated each other with civility, of course, anything else would be unthinkable in these heady heights of high society. The people that Madame Potts seated together at his table were happy to discuss the parts of the salon that interested them and, glory be, never made any pretence at flattery and engagement when the topic and presenter did not warrant such a thing. He rather liked that about them. It felt a little bit like them against the rest of the room.</p><p>The salon wasn't quite as full as usual this afternoon. Perhaps the crème of the crop, the country's foremost fat cats, had fled the capital's terrible spring weather. Perhaps, and if so they had more good sense than Crawly usually allowed them, they'd taken one look at the subject matter on the salon's menu tonight and decided that missing out on the prestige of being here tonight was a sacrifice worth making in favour of a decent time.</p><p>Crawly much preferred the philosophical nights, and the science sessions. On those rare occasions when the salon lowered itself to more practical subjects, commerce and such like, he could hold his own entirely. Not that such base subjects came up very often; Madame Potts had a certain clientele to please, after all.</p><p>He recognised most of the people who <em>had</em> shown up tonight. An unusually high percentage of balding men, as Madame Potts had foretold. One of the newcomers, two tables over, a scholarly, moustached type, was the picture of fascinated enrapturement, sitting there collecting dust; he fit in terribly well with the rest of them. Terrifically dull, the lot of them.</p><p>The <em>other</em> one, the young blond guy, was rather more easy on the eyes, at least. Stuffy, sure, but that was the order of the day in a place like this. At least he was nice to look at. Or perhaps it was simply the fact that most of the people around him were old and dusty and he was simply <em>nicer</em> to look at than the rest – Crawly had been trying to determine which was the case all night. He'd had lovely eyes, blue or green. Or grey perhaps.</p><p>The stuffy blond was nodding resolutely along with whatever the speaker, Mr Fitzroy, was currently droning on about. He was also, Crawly realised with a grin, quite obviously stifling a yawn.</p><p>Well, that certainly spoke in his favour.</p><p>Spurred on by the young man's stubborn insistence on paying attention to the speaker, Crawly allowed himself to make a study of him.</p><p>He was immaculately dressed, from what Crawly could make out from his profile. The light grey knee breeches he wore gave him the moderate air of the country gentleman, but they showed off his strong calves very well indeed inside their expensive silk stockings. An elegant choice which suited him, though Crawly would never have been caught dead in such a get-up. The blueish-grey wool of the young man's tailcoat sleeve gave way to a set of elegantly manicured hands which even now in his apparent enrapture he could not quite keep still. They fretted at the tablecloth, at the handle of his teacup, drew little patterns on the surface of the table. The top end of the tailcoat revealed a delicate face, brows which moved nearly as much as his hands, and a crown of almost ludicrously blond hair.</p><p>He looked every part the young country toff come to the city.</p><p>The overall effect was rather winning, really, loathe as Crawly was to admit it. He looked away again, perused the rest of the room and attendees, and eventually turned, all other options exhausted, back to Fitzroy and his lecture. If his eyes sometimes wandered over to the newcomers' table, well, the lecture really was dull as anything.</p><p>***</p><p>Now, Aziraphale had a good grip of the classics, of course he did; it came with his good breeding. He liked the old stories, the myths and the legends. The ancient art was beautiful overall, if <em>outrageously lewd</em> of course, and he felt that same ping of awe at the sheer age of those ancient artifacts as he did walking past the Tower of London. He was the sort to think of himself as having an inquisitive mind, and so he was naturally inclined to attack every area of knowledge with great diligence.</p><p>Even he, however, found himself anything but eager to continue the chat when Chester-Monroe and another dusty old white-haired man from their table hunted him down during the freer discussion post-presentations and turned on him to further discuss those <em>blasted</em> Doric columns.</p><p>"I'm not <em>entirely</em> certain Miss Farlane has <em>quite</em> understood the difference between Archaic Doric and the more Classical later forms of the Doric column which can be seen in the Parthenon," began the white-haired man.</p><p>"<em>Mrs</em>. Farlane," Aziraphale corrected with a nod and a thin smile, attempting a discreet look around for possible escape routes and catching a hint of amber eye a little way off across his left shoulder as he did.</p><p>"Yes, yes," the white-haired man, two heads shorter than Aziraphale, rambled on. "Did you not say, young man, that you saw the Elgin Marbles being transported away from the Parthenon? Would you not opine that those were not what one would normally deem ordinary Doric columns?"</p><p>The man blinked up at him, rather insistently.</p><p>"<em>Now</em>, Mr. Snodgrass, that young man is Mr. Aziraphale <em>Fortescue</em>, you were introduced at the table, remember?" Mr. Chester-Monroe corrected, not unkindly, though rather urgently.</p><p>"Oh, I see. I do beg your pardon, <em>sir</em>, I did not realise…"</p><p>"That's, erh, that is quite alright." Aziraphale took a half step back.</p><p>"Thank you, good sir. If I may ask, then, what is your opinion on the Parthenon columns, my lord?"</p><p>Two sets of wrinkled, dusty eyes blinked intently at him.</p><p>Aziraphale took another little step back. "Oh, I believe Mrs. Farlane is the expert, I quite- I quite trust her judgement. Now if you'd excuse me, gentlemen, I should- I should like a word with Madame Potts." He bowed and took another, final step back and away – right on to someone's foot.</p><p>Aziraphale whirled around, nearly losing his balance as he turned. As if on reflex, two hands gripped his waist and tugged at him to steady him.</p><p>"Oh, I am terribly sorry, I don't- I didn't see-"</p><p>The hands were gone within a second, moving back to the safety of the red-haired man's back in just a flash.</p><p>"My apologies," he sputtered.</p><p>The man lifted an eyebrow. His eyes, up close, really were a very unusual colour.</p><p>Aziraphale waited for the expected well-mannered dismissal of his apologies. It didn't come. They stared at each other for a few uncomfortable seconds. The man had sharp eyes, sharp, strong features all over, really. He was much younger than Aziraphale had thought, looked as young as Aziraphale himself. His hair up close was rather striking, a highly unusual colour, beau-</p><p>"I really am very sorry," he tried again, a little more aggressively. To his great chagrin, he felt himself blush.</p><p>The man finally relented, though the expected placating smile stayed away in favour of a darker, smirkier cousin. "No harm done," he drawled and gave a small bow. "Goodnight."</p><p>Without further ado, the man walked off on his long legs – rather well-dressed in slim button-up trousers, what a bold choice – hands cuffed tightly into fists on his back, leaving Aziraphale really quite baffled.</p><p>Fortunately, as he was wont to do, Aziraphale found himself immediately roped into yet another conversation which successfully shook him out of any stray, treacherous musings.</p><p>And so the afternoon went, until it was very nearly evening and most of the salon attendees had congregated into little groups of familiar acquaintances. Aziraphale, having no such natural group to fall in with on account of it being his first time there, had nevertheless found himself included into three other conversations with his table compatriots before he even knew it.</p><p>Fed up and no nearer to catching Madame Potts on his own to make his delicate inquiries, he finally managed to excuse himself from further discussion and conquered a quiet corner for himself where he could check his pocket watch discreetly so as not to cause offense. He was running out of time, had perhaps twenty minutes before the end of the evening, and he really… he really must – <em>must</em> – find her.</p><p>With practised ease, he inserted two fingers into the little pocket in his waistcoat. Empty. He drew them back out and patted stupidly for the chain, which ought to poke out of one of his button holes.</p><p>It did not.</p><p>His nerves, already quite on edge, set his skin on fire.</p><p>He took a deep breath. Looked down at himself. Nothing. Then frantically around the marbled floor to either side of him. Nothing. He made a full circle, then started over again, mind spinning faster yet, and still- <em>it couldn't- it mustn't- piece of the family, a precious part of- of them. He'd been entrusted with it, and now- now- oh how could he be so stupid. He loved it, too, it was one of the good ones, he'd been so proud, his grandfather's beloved-</em></p><p>"Pardon the intrusion, sir, but might you perhaps be looking for this?"</p><p>It was a drawl he barely recognised, though he was certain whom the languid voice belonged to before he even looked up.</p><p>The young man from earlier, the sullen one with those curious eyes, was dangling Aziraphale's beloved watch in front of him.</p><p>"Found it on the floor over there," he added, nodding vaguely towards a part of the room Aziraphale had barely been in. There was just the slightest tinge of pink to his sharp features.</p><p>"Oh. Thank you." Aziraphale breathed a sigh of relief, reaching out.</p><p>To his astonishment, the watch was not returned to him.</p><p>Instead, the redhead caught the clock in his hand, bringing it close to his eyes to study it. The thin gold chain slid slowly off his slender wrist, serpent-like, to dangle like a pendulum below his spidery hand.</p><p>His keen amber eyes took in every exquisite detail from the tiny golden wings and laurels to the built-up grime in every crevice. Aziraphale couldn't help but feel a little defensive. The watch showed all the little tell-tale signs of everyday use, he knew, but he <em>liked</em> it that way, well-worn and loved.</p><p>"Beautiful."</p><p>"Erh, yes, quite."</p><p>"An heirloom?"</p><p>Aziraphale stepped a bit closer, flattening out his palm. "Yes."</p><p>"I bet it's very old? Fascinating story behind it?"</p><p>"I'm afraid not, no, not at all. It was my grandfather's, though he only had it made, ah, twenty years ago."</p><p>"Ah." </p><p>“He’s deceased,” Aziraphale added, flustered.</p><p>“Pity.” </p><p>“...Rather, yes.”</p><p>The taller man let the watch slip through his long, thin fingers, confidently gripping the end of the chain before it also dropped through, and raised the watch high in front of Aziraphale. It dangled between them, spinning slowly in the air.</p><p>"Well, here you are." He made no sign of handing it over.</p><p>Aziraphale blinked at him. He felt his forehead crease into a frown.</p><p>The man raised an eyebrow and, with the ghost of an upturned lip, gave the chain a little flick with his slim, pale wrist, eyes locked on Aziraphale's. He could see the dying embers of the fireplace behind him reflected in them.</p><p>The chain swayed dangerously back and forth between them.</p><p>Aziraphale looked away for a moment, considering his options. The, the <em>insolence</em>.</p><p>He settled on looking the man firmly in the eye and caught the watch, stilling it in his hand.</p><p>He fought it valiantly, face firm, but failed to hold back a triumphant little pout. Blast it.</p><p>Those thin lips on that strange man broke into an undeniable smirk in response.</p><p>Unseemly.</p><p>Absolutely out of order.</p><p>Aziraphale pouted his lips for fear of having them smile in full-blown rebellion, and the smirk grew into just the hint of a sharp-toothed grin.</p><p>Aziraphale, eyes growing narrow, gave the watch a quick, firm tug, finally forcing the chain out of the other man's hand. He got a surprised half-chuckle in response, a much lighter, flightier sound than what he'd heard so far.</p><p>He looked away, quickly. "Yes, thank you."</p><p>There was no pointing to any particular transgression of behaviour. The man had found his watch and been kind enough to return it, really. It was over in a moment. And yet…</p><p>Aziraphale made to walk away.</p><p>"So." The man was a little taller than Aziraphale. Much leaner. He folded his hands behind him and moved slowly, languidly in a half circle around Aziraphale, coming round to stand by his left shoulder. "I take it this is your first time?"</p><p>Aziraphale nodded, a little tersely.</p><p>"What brings you to the salon, if I might ask?"</p><p>He mightn't; surely they must both knew that. They should not be talking; it transgressed every rule of etiquette. This was… this was not right: They <em>had not been introduced</em>.</p><p>The man raised his eyebrows in what mocked polite expectation. His eyes were a very unusual colour.</p><p>Aziraphale pursed his lips. It had no effect, the man kept waiting.</p><p>"Intellectual interest, of course," he relented.</p><p>The redhead twerked his head about in something approaching a nod, perhaps. "Of course." He paused, waiting for Aziraphale to expand on his answer.</p><p>He didn't. Naturally.</p><p>The other man leant in instead, undeterred and indecorous, voice deepening confidentially into a playful lilt. "Simply <em>fascinating</em> things, Doric columns, are they not?" He glanced at Aziraphale, who kept looking determinedly out across the room, hands entirely well-mannered behind his back, clutching the watch. "I do so <em>wish</em> they'd gone into more detail on those. I don't believe I'll ever tire of hearing about bases and drums and styloplates-"</p><p>"Stylobates," Aziraphale corrected automatically, fighting a smile despite his <em>absolute</em> and <em>genuine</em> consternation at the man's transgressions.</p><p>"-Right, right, stylobates, and the many, many, <em>many</em> ways in which the triglyphs may be spaced out, I cannot <em>believe</em> Mr. Fitzroy barely devoted half an hour to that, you know, simply outrageous, it is incredible that he <em>dares</em> to turn up at such a respected place as this and provide us with such a <em>sloppy</em> overview of-"</p><p>Aziraphale lost the battle, finally, rebellious lips twisting into a smile, then struggling against a chortle as the young man rambled on, then on some more, while Aziraphale looked resolutely at the room. He chanced a quick glance at the man on his left, looked away the instance their eyes met. He had looked delighted, for a moment, at Aziraphale's concession, face quite transformed from the haughty detachment it had worn so far. The smile suited him just as well, Aziraphale thought. It crinkled his eyes a little bit.</p><p>His features were rather bold and striking, not at all made worse by the softening smile. Not far off the romantic heroes in those Austen books his sisters had left strewn about the place. Their bedrooms. Their nightstands. When they were younger.</p><p>He was probably the type to be deemed objectively handsome, if Aziraphale should hazard a guess. Such unusual eyes.</p><p>…Which did <em>nothing</em>, Aziraphale reminded himself, to change the fact that the man was now quite openly flouting the rules of propriety in speaking to him. He straightened his stance, cleared his throat.</p><p>"…Well, I do believe we've covered columns for now. I should like to hear your opinions on Mrs. Farlane's section of the afternoon?" The man prodded at him, watching for his reaction.</p><p>Aziraphale took a little step to his right, scouting for Madame Potts, watch firmly tucked away in his hand.</p><p>"Oh, it was- it was very good."</p><p>"…Yeees?" The man waited for a moment and went on undeterred in his deep, really rather becoming drawl. "I thought she did <em>tremendously</em>, I should love to see the Elgin Marbles one day; I'm ashamed to say that as of yet I have not…" He overenunciated the 't', exaggerated the syllable, made it sound much more profound than the sentence deserved.</p><p><em>Hm</em>. He had paused, was looking at Aziraphale, who added nothing further, of course.</p><p>"…Overall, however, I enjoyed the section on Homer the most. I recently rea- re-read the <em>Odyssey</em>."</p><p>His odd, exaggerated upper-class drawl seemed to grow in intensity with every word he spoke against Aziraphale's polite and proper silences.</p><p>Aziraphale smiled at him, a short, quick thing, now more out of courtesy than amusement.</p><p>"I thought the discussion of it today was excellent, though I must admit – and the story is a masterpiece, of course, I treasure many parts of it, but I <em>must</em> say, I didn't much care for the conclusion – the bit about Lertees, you know."</p><p>"Sorry, which bit?" The question was out of him before Aziraphale even knew.</p><p>"<em>Lertees</em>. The father, you know? And the happy magical return at the end, a bit too 'prodigal son' for my liking," the redhead continued, all intensive upper-class vowels and studied pauses in his speech. <em>Hmm.</em> "All seems a bit of an easy a way out, to bring the wayward son home to Lertees and have such a neat, happy ending, does it not?"</p><p><em>La-ertes</em>, thought Aziraphale, cringing a little in second-hand embarrassment. "I, erh, I suppose."</p><p>The other man paused to look at him, tilting his head.</p><p>"Pardon me, sir, is something the matter?"</p><p>Aziraphale sputtered, weakly.</p><p>"Have I offended you?" A quick glance confirmed that his openness had retreated again, mouth settling into detached haughtiness once more, though there was still something of a glint to his eyes. "If so, I beg your forgiveness, I assure you I never meant to do so." He bowed, lightly, politely, in line with his more formal language.</p><p>Aziraphale found the return to proper etiquette much less comforting than he would have thought. It forced him to reply, of course, to interact, give some answer to the apology, or Aziraphale himself should appear impolite.</p><p>Aziraphale was anything but impolite.</p><p>"No-no, no harm done, Mr. …?"</p><p>"Crawly." The man bowed his head a little.</p><p>"Mr. Crawly."</p><p>"It's just that, well, you know how these things are…"</p><p>Mr. Crawly lifted his eyebrows at him, the act softer than what was probably intended. Aziraphale looked away. </p><p>"Well, you know how it is. <em>We've not been introduced</em>."</p><p>"Ah." The smirk came back. Aziraphale almost felt glad, and upon making that realisation, decided to add a huff for the good of them both and general propriety.</p><p>Madame Potts, whom Aziraphale had been looking for for most of the afternoon, appeared as if conjured just metres from them, busily offering up tobacco from a beautiful silver box in the middle of the nearest group of attendees. Mr. Crawly left Aziraphale's side without further ado and walked a step or two towards her.</p><p>"My good lady, Madame Potts," Mr. Crawly called out. "Might I steal you away for a minute?" He bowed at the other group in apology as she stepped towards them.</p><p>Their gracious hostess smiled at Crawly, a warm, bright smile Aziraphale hadn't seen on her before. "Yes, of course, Mr. Crawly, anyzing for you."</p><p>His lip quirked up at her words, Aziraphale noticed. His eyes crinkled at their edges, his face folded into an entirely new, fond rendition as he looked at her. It was a fascinating change; he looked much younger, suddenly.</p><p>"A splendid evening as usual, Madame." She smiled at Mr. Crawly, a sparkle in her eye.</p><p>She turned to Aziraphale. "And what does oeur newest guest zink of my little salon?"</p><p>"It has been an honour and a pleasure, Madame Potts," Aziraphale smiled, genuinely, even if he didn't elicit quite the same fondness in the smile the hostess returned as Crawly. "I hope that I haven't made a fool of myself."</p><p>"Au contraire, from what I've gleaned you 'ave impressed a lot of our regular attendees; Mrs. Farlane told me I must make sure zat you attend every time she presents, zat you were terribly charming in your flattery." Her eyes sparkled. "I 'ope you 'ave some praise left oveur for your 'ostess too."</p><p>Aziraphale chuckled. "Of course, Madame, I've not had a more stimulating afternoon for many years."</p><p>Madame Potts and Mr. Crawly exchanged a look. She indicated the two of them. "Were you dis-cussing the events of the evening?"</p><p>"Yes," answered Crawly.</p><p>"No," said Aziraphale, at the exact same time.</p><p>In the silence that followed, Madame Potts looked from Mr. Fortescue to Mr. Crawly, her bejewelled wig and chest gleaming in the light from the fireplace behind them.</p><p>"I'm afraid your newest guest has not been terribly forthcoming, Madame," Mr. Crawly offered, eventually. "I believe I rather put my foot in it."</p><p>"Oh, not at all." It was a weak effort at reassurance on Mr. Fortescue's part, though it might be excused by the disconcerting nature of the interaction, dipping below the glittering, beautiful surface of society etiquette, hinting at <em>disagreement</em>, trouble, a terrible offense on a fine evening such as this.</p><p>"You see, Madame Potts," Mr. Crawly continued in too serious a voice, "we've <em>not been introduced</em>."</p><p>The good madame frowned at the taller man for a second before her face settled back into the sparkling, façade-like smile that the lines in her made-up face showed to be the expression she had worn most of the night.</p><p>"You do not know each otheur?"</p><p>Aziraphale fretted, tongue flicking across his teeth to quench a smile. "We do not." He took a little break in his speech, made the statement definite, with their eyes on him; cleared his throat to draw out the suspense and toy with them gently, his own little moment of revenge against the unconventional situation the taller man had put him in. "Mr. Crawly was simply so kind as to hand me back my pocket watch, which I must have dropped."</p><p>He noticed the quick flick of the lady's heavily darkened eyes to Mr. Crawly.</p><p>"I see. Well, h'it is an easily fixable probleme, gentlemen." She turned her head, slowly on account of the enormous, glittering wig on her head, to look directly at Aziraphale. "If both parties are amenable?"</p><p>Well, what was Aziraphale to say? It was a skilled performance by the other man, an easy trap to fall into. A misstep in etiquette, breached quite deliberately, he thought, wrapped up in dark charm and misunderstanding. <em>Careful</em>, warned a little voice inside of him.</p><p>He smiled a little tightly as the two turned on him. "Of course. If the good lady would be so kind as to rectify the situation."</p><p>He looked expectantly at Mr. Crawly as she spoke.</p><p>"Well then. My pleaseur, my Lord," the good madame began with a little half-curtsy. With his new, much more open view of Crawly's face, Aziraphale saw quite clearly the lift of his eyebrows despite their hasty retreat back down to their normal location at the title. "Mr. Crawly, this is Monsieur Aziraphale Fortescue." Crawly made a better bid to keep his eyebrows in control this time around and hid the rest of them within a much deep bow. "Mr. Fortescue, this is Mr. Anthony Crawly," Madame Potts finished.</p><p>"Anthony <em>J</em>. Crawly," Anthony J. Crawly corrected. Aziraphale nodded his head.</p><p>"Of course. Now if you'd excuse me, gentlemen, I'd better get zis" – she shook the tobacco box lightly – "distributed and I'm sure you can manage on your own for a few minutes from 'ere. Mr. Fortescue, I implore you not to leave before we've become better acquainted."</p><p>It was flattery, of course, but it suited Aziraphale's goals very well. "I should very much like that, Madame."</p><p>She smiled at him, measured but warm. "If at all possible, it would please me greatly if we could reconvene once – well, you know 'ow it is." She gestured loosely to the ensemble spread around her opulent drawing room. "Once it gets a little more quiet around here and I can have my wits about me. Anthony, ma Cherie, I insist that you do not let this one leave before I let him."</p><p>Mr. Crawly smiled a thin smile and nodded.</p><p>"I should very much like to get him on my own," she winked and turned around, all tight, bright dress and enormous hair. Aziraphale couldn't help but laugh. It came out a little too loud, and the smile on his companion's lips faltered, replaced by a much more open look of surprise. </p><p>"Do you laugh at our gracious hostess, sir?" Mr. Crawly's tone was much more playful than reproachful, though his face gave nothing away.</p><p>"No! Oh no, that wouldn't be funny at all," Aziraphale blushed at the implication and turned towards the open room, a few little scatterings of people still left. "I should very much hope, Mr. Crawly, that I am laughing <em>with</em> her. The lady has a wonderful way about her that I very much admired from the moment I had the good fortune of meeting her tonight. She is certainly one of a kind."</p><p>Mr. Crawly looked him over briefly before turning back to look out at the tables. "And isn't that all one might hope to be."</p><p>Mr. Fortescue took at moment to give the notion due consideration, tucking his pocket watch back to the relative safety of its little pocket. He looked up again to his eyes at his new acquaintance. "There are many things one ought to strive be, Mr. Crawly. Kind. Honest. Well-mannered..."</p><p>The redhead cleared his throat, the edge of his mouth flittering a little. "I suppose."</p><p>Aziraphale observed him closely from the corner of his eye and barely noticed his own pursed lips in the pursuit.</p><p>He was fairly certain the man's – Mr. Crawly's thin lips were fighting a smile. "I should hope you strive for such noble things too, Mr. Crawly. I wouldn't like any new acquaintance of mine – <em>however hastily gained </em>– to scoff at such decent aspirations."</p><p>Crawly turned towards him. "If my introduction was hasty, Mr. Fortescue, I apologise sincerely, I assure you I meant no offense." He almost looked contrite. For all of a second.</p><p>His hands went back around his back and he took another few steps around Mr. Fortescue, forcing the latter to crane his neck to follow him. "The good sir did <em>agree</em> to the introduction, however," he noted, breezily. "And might I remind Mr. Fortescue that the only transgression I made was to return your watch. Hardly unkind. Or dishonest."</p><p>Mr. Fortescue gave up on monitoring him when he had to look across his shoulder to do so and fixed instead his eyes on a group of ladies who were currently saying their goodbyes to their magnificent hostess. "Yes. Well. I am very grateful that you <em>did</em> return it."</p><p>The answer came deep and low across his shoulder, much sharper than it ought to be. "As for my manners, I can only apologise and hope that I might make up for any offense in future, my Lord."</p><p>Aziraphale felt the little hairs at the back of his neck rise, quite against their master's wishes. He was saved by the last two words of Mr. Crawly's, which guided him to much more familiar territory – however irritating.</p><p>"I am <em>not</em> a <em>lord</em>," he corrected, rather sharply.</p><p>"Oh?"</p><p>He sighed and turned to face Mr. Crawly, who was smiling, all sharp teeth and ember eyes, and looked away again, hands folded neatly behind him. Across the room by the door to the hallway, Madame Potts curtsied at two elderly gentlemen taking their leave.</p><p>"It is an easy mistake to make and you are far from the first to make it," his voice came out a little terser than intentioned as he rattled off the key points of his existence. "My father is the lord – although just a baron – and my oldest brother will be a lord one day. <em>I</em>, however, am simply Aziraphale Fortescue, youngest son of my father and merely a cousin of the Earls Fortescue, which are <em>by far</em> the more interesting branch of the family tree, I assure you, Mr. Crawly, and the ones that you have undoubtedly heard of."</p><p>"Aziraphale Fortescue." Crawly tried the name on his tongue as he completed his semi-circle, drawled it out as if he were tasting it. It sounded rather elegant spoken by him. "<em>Simply</em> Aziraphale Fortescue. Doesn't seem such a bad thing to be. <em>Sir</em>."</p><p>Aziraphale blinked.</p><p>"Seems a thoroughly agreeable thing for one to be, in fact, Mr. Fortescue," he added.</p><p>It was with great relief – it <em>was</em> – that Aziraphale noticed Madame Potts heading towards them. He nodded towards her.</p><p>"How do you know our gracious hostess, Mr. Crawly?"</p><p>Mr. Crawly shifted beside him, stepped back a little to make room in their little space for Madame Potts. "Oh, the good lady and I go back a very long way indeed."</p><p>Aziraphale waited for further explanation. When none came, he scrambled for another pertinent question. "And do you partake in these gatherings often?"</p><p>"As often as I am able. I'm afraid I've been otherwise engaged for the last few weeks." He raised his voice, opening up the conversation for Madame Potts as she reached them. "I hope to have the good fortune to run into you again at future events, Mr. Fortescue," he bowed.</p><p>"Likewise, Mr. Crawly," Aziraphale nodded. It would have been rude not to.</p><p>The redhead turned to the lady. "Here he is, Madame Potts, all safe and sound and none the worse for wear despite my best attempts." He bowed, briefly, and walked off, disappearing out to the hallway in a show of long, lanky limbs that he moved about very unusually indeed.</p><p>Aziraphale found he had quite forgotten what exactly he needed to speak to Madame Potts about so urgently when he first turned around to face her.</p><p>
  
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  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>LOOK AT THEM!!! TOGETHER, FINALLY. Well... we're just getting started.</p><p>Thank you so much for reading and following along on this possibly a tiny bit self-indulgent Regency ride!</p><p>As said, the next chapter will probably be up in two weeks (it's half-written currently), and then I should be back to regular posting - I have a lot of this fic written out already, especially the more dramatic scenes...</p><p>Finally: Thank you so, so much to everyone who has left kudos, comments, bookmarked or subscribed - it has really meant a lot and been very encouraging over these past stupid, stupid weeks.</p>
        </blockquote><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>BEHOLD THE WORLD'S MOST GORGEOUS AZIRAPHALE AND THE WORLD'S HOTTEST CROWLEY - all hail <a href="https://agardeneden.tumblr.com/">agardeneden</a>, also known (on AO3) as anthony_crowley also and rightfully known as Samthony.</p><p>Let me just say that while there will be angst and period-typical homophobia in this, but I want to stress that they end up happy and safe and cute together and they have lots of fun on the way to getting there too.</p><p>This fic has been written/is being written as part of the glorious Do It With Style minibang event, where I have met a bunch of lovely people who have infinitely improved these weird lockdown months.</p><p>I'm Thyra279 on Tumblr and everywhere.</p><p>I'd like to say a massive thanks to the mods and lovely people on the DIWS server, and specifically to Bucky for summary help and general guruism, Tarek for betaing, Linden for betaing and excellent co-hyping and loveliness &lt;3 and to Samthony for the AMAZING, BEAUTIFUL ART, general fun times and making all my wildest dreams come true by putting young Aziraphale in a Royal Navy uniform and making him even more handsome than I could have positively imagined (which says a lot).</p></blockquote></div></div>
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